


Fractured

by Kdin



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Agency issues, Amnesia, Angst, Brain Damage, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Dissociation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Medical Trauma, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Recovery, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Touch-Starved, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 02:02:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7666084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kdin/pseuds/Kdin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks he'll never be happy again. He doesn't know that after everything bad that's happened, he could still be blessed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Longing

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings in every chapter's notes.
> 
> Special thanks to my friend [ZeroMonster](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeroMonster) for helping me write a lovely scene ♥
> 
> This story was written in second person narrative to evoke more empathic perceptions and to personally involve the reader in the experience. Thank you for your understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings: Brief mentions of violence (graphic), flashbacks and medical abuse (graphic).

“Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.” 

 

― Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit.

 

* * *

 

 

They find you. 

Or you let them find you. 

This time they don't wipe you immediately, which allows you to remember the man in the bridge, the one you pulled out of the Potomac, the one who claims to be your friend.

It's Steve who tracks you or Rumlow down at the warehouse, Hydra's new location after P*ER**'s death.

So Steve finds you. Kneeling in your own filth. Blood running down from your temples into a pool around you.

"Bucky?" You hear him say, distant and faded through the ringing in your ears since the last blow you received on the back of your head.

The soldiers escape but Rumlow gets imprisoned, which only makes you uneasy, waiting to the time he'll find his way out.

 Cut one head of the HYDRA and two more shall take its place.

 

 

 

They tell you your bones didn't heal properly. The fracture in one of your spine discs.

You think, it's not the only fracture that hasn't healed properly. 

Steve asks you how it happened but you don't tell him about Rumlow and the other soldiers. How you couldn't see the blows coming because of the blindfold, how you weren't allowed to scream or tell them to stop. You don't tell him about the punishment you got for not killing him.

You don't know why it's such a big deal, you don't know why they care.

They will put you to sleep, after explaining to you what the procedure will consist of, and Steve is there, holding your inert hand until they supply the anesthetic and your eyes feel heavy and your head drowsy. You don't want to sleep, you don't want to go through this again. 

Another piece of metal attached to your body, another series of cutting through your flesh and scraping on bone.

You're falling and your grip tightens because you realize you don't want to go. You hold onto whatever you can, your eyes go wide, your muscles tense, your heart rate elevated. 

You can hear Steve's desperate words over your own screaming. 

 _Stop._ пожалуйста остановись _._

 

 

You feel nothing, for a while. 

When you wake up you're elsewhere, the air smells soft and warm. You stir and your movement is limited by a metallic brace around your torso. Fear floods your vision and you want out, out, out, so you fight against your constraints when a voice calls at you.

"Easy, Bucky. You're at home, you're safe. Look at me," he says and his words set you off. You look up at him. Sam. You know him, Steve told you. But all you can see in him is the way you tried to break him once. 

He continues talking but you're looking around you. Home, he had said. How can you have a home, you wonder. You don't even exist. You only awake to please, to serve. The closest you have to a home are the cold cement walls of the vaults they store you in. This place isn't like that. The walls look yellow due to the lights from the streets but you think they might be green, or maybe white.

"I'm proud of you. Good job, concentrate on my breathing." His voice kicks in and you look at your hands making fists with the sheets.

 

 

 

Later you realize it's Steve's apartment, not your home.

That night you lay motionless on the bed, your only task is to stare at the ceiling. Hear the drip, drip of the IV bag above you. Bearing the knife-like pain in your back. Steve doesn't sleep that night either, you can hear him walking around barefoot, and sometimes he opens the door of the bedroom you are in and he stares at your figure in the dark for a couple of minutes before leaving. 

You don't get out of bed for days. You think it's better this way. 

Steve goes into the room every morning to ask you how you are feeling. You divert his gaze, your good hand clenching and unclenching to pass time. He doesn't mind when you don't answer, but every morning you hear his hopeful voice and you see him smiling sadly at you. And every morning you disappoint.

It's like that for days. You are barely there, unsure about time passing. You see Steve, and his face stays until you lose yourself. You see Sam and you see her. You don't know if you dream, you don't see anything when you close your eyes, you wonder about the drugs in your system. You don't feel, you are not. 


	2. Rusted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings: Brief mention of throwing up (graphic).

You feel your eyes wide open. They're curious. You lie there, time ticks away and you are paralyzed. You're in a silent void while your bloodstream manages massive amounts of drugs. Your eyes are black swallowing a cold blue. You remember, your reflection on a metallic surface once. They fix on the lamp, or the bookshelf, or the carpeted floor and they stare. It's comforting. You want to feel the heat of the lamp and smell of the books and touch the soft texture of the carpet.

 Soft.

The blankets around you.

Warm.

 

 

Like each morning, Steve offers you a cup of tea, something "easy on your stomach" and you let it cool on the bedside table. Then, Steve sits on the chair across the room and taps on his tablet and reads you the news.

"Three years later, family finally goes home after superstorm Sandy."

"Mayor cuts his own pay by fifty percent to balance budget."

"Artificial Intelligence replaces physicists."

"Baby bison dies after tourists put animal in car because it looked cold."

"Program helps sick kids in hospital and after, regardless of ability to pay."

"Dolls get donated limbs from other toys to teach kids about transplants."

You aren't sure why Steve tries to protect you from the actual news, but the ones he tells you make you sad.

 

 

 

Some evenings Sam comes over. He's there when you get the back brace off and approaches carefully to you to help Steve get it off. Sam guides you verbally through it and Steve's expression makes you realize they're scared of you. They're afraid you'll get up and break their necks. But you won't. You've been punished for going rogue, and it lasted days and weeks and months of starvation, electrocutions, beatings. It costed you so many scars and now you have to carry with them every day.

You know better than that. So you let them manipulate your body at their will.

"Buck, you really should try to eat something," Steve comments.

You say nothing. Both stare at you expectantly.

"I'll make something, how about brown rice with chicken? I'll be right back." Sam smiles at you before leaving the room.

"I brought you some clothes from the store," Steve says, offering a hand. You take it and he pulls you until you're sitting on the bed. "Do you want to change?" He shows you the clothes, they're sitting on the chair, neatly folded.

You shake your head.

Steve's brow furrows in a way that makes him look hurt. "Bucky, you've been wearing the hospital clothes since you came home, these ones will make you feel better."

Your head drops, you stare at the patterned hospital gown and gray pants.

Steve sighs after a while and puts the pile of clothes down. "Maybe later."

 

 

 

You hadn't seen the kitchen until now. It's tidy and merry with wood furniture, you stand next to Steve and watch Sam serving sliced chicken next to a spoonful of rice.

"Sit down," Steve says gently. Sam nudges him and makes a face at him.

You have to look around, even if you don't want to. You are an easy target: the windows, the unsecure doors, the neighbor buildings. It's a clear shot. If HYDRA knows you're here they can kill you anytime. Your stomach turns but you take a seat, remembering Steve's order. You sit where you can see the front door and the windows. Steve sets the plate in front of you, it's steaming and the smell is overwhelming.

"Go ahead," Sam is saying, signaling the metal fork next to the plate. "It's simple but the seasoning makes the difference."

The fork feels foreign in your hand. You attempt to− You don't really know−

You manage some of the food into your mouth and directly down your esophagus. Steve and Sam serve themselves and take a place across from you on the table.

You don't know where the bathroom is. And either way you never got to one after the chair. So you vomit on the floor. You expect punishment instantly, you keep your head down. You flinch, but all Steve says is "Oh my God."

Sam tries to hoist you up but he doesn't touch you, just waves his hands to show you what he wants you to do, pointing to the bathroom door as you feel yourself retching again.

You kneel in front of the toilet bowl as your stomach lurches violently and rejects what you put in it until all is coming up is bile and blood and saliva. Steve places a hand on your scarred shoulder and the sound that escapes you as you turn and slap his hand away from you is that of a scared animal.

 


	3. Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings: Mentions of violence and abuse (graphic). Brief mention of implied/referenced rape (mild) and talks depicting mild violence.

You start to see Steve in a different way one day.

It's disturbing. You don't want to dig in your mind, it's dirty, but seeing Steve's face provides you of information unintentionally. It's the taste of saltwater and a sweet scent. It's a tight but gentle grip, a faded chuckle, the feeling of sunburnt skin. And sometimes the smell of blood. 

Rusting iron. Musty dirt.

The color red blurs your vision. Your ears are ringing, a woman is yelling her lungs out. Bones break at your hands, something warm streams down your face. You don't know why, but your muscle memory betrays you, you pull at your restraints. You don't want to be punished again and yet you keep fighting, why?

_Zhelaniye…_  

You find a way and you break an arm to set yourself free from your handler. He cries in pain and more voices add into the shouting of the room as you look around for a way out. And that's when nothing makes sense anymore. 

_"Bucky!"_ Someone screams desperately _. "Bucky, stop!_ " And you see his face again and the world crumbles around you. Your knees hit the ground, dark floods over you. _(On your knees and pray)._

 

 

 

After Rumlow, after the soldiers and the beatings. After you broke Steve's radius and Sam's tibia, they take you to the medic. You wake up between being awake already. A light flashes in your left eye, then the right. It leaves a stain in your vision, like a burnt film.  You look down and feel oddly comforted by the blue patterns on the hospital gown. You have been wearing it since. 

Since they took you away.

"Many of the symptoms that follow a traumatic brain injury overlap with the common reactions after trauma," the whitecoat says and you divert your gaze from her. Your heartbeat picks up.

Steve has his arm in a sling, his brow is furrowed. All is your fault. 

"Effective treatments for PTSD also work well for those who have suffered TBI,"  she continues and you feel your chest tighten in anticipation, you reach out and grip Steve's good wrist in a futile attempt. He looks at you worriedly, his lips parted and his muscles tense.

"Steve," you say and it scrapes at your throat. The first word you've said in− "Don't… please, don't let them− I'm _sorry_." 

"Hey, shhh _._ It's okay, Buck. They won't take you anywhere, I promise, but you have to calm down, okay?"

 

 

 

You go home after that. You sit on the backseat. Oktober drives and Steve takes the copilot seat. You stare out the window, the trees are shadows and the buildings are monsters. Raindrops hit the glass and you feel drenched to the bones. You force a lungful of air into you and close your eyes.

You are a shadow and Rumlow is a monster.

You are a hollow body and PI*RC* is a God.

You are a monster. They fuck the angel out of you and you are a monster.


	4. Daybreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings: Brief mention of abuse (mild).

"Oktober," the word escapes your lips when Steve is unlocking the apartment's door. When you see her you think of drawing your foot so that the toes of your right reach the heel of your left, and think of being gripped by the arm until bruises and nail marks appear. (Odin, dva, _Plié, passé_. Think! You don't think! You dance like a circus ape!) 

She takes her sunglasses off, flicking her head and her red hair falls back to her shoulders like a waterfall. "That's right, James. Ready to refuel your body?"

"No," Steve interjects, letting both of you into the apartment. "It's Natasha."

"Leave him alone, Rogers."

"The doctor said he needs to learn new information to replace what was lost."

"Relax, old man," she says as she takes the grocery bags to the kitchen counter and starts emptying their contents. "James, you're gonna try and drink this nutritional shake." Oktober waves a white and blue plastic bottle in your direction. "And we're gonna try and keep it down." Her voice is confident, joyful. You take a step forward and accept the drink. 

"It's chocolate," Steve says with a shrug and a pained expression in his eyes. "Just−" Steve starts desperately but sighs and makes himself soften his expression. "Take small sips." 

You do as you are told. The bottle cap remains in a tight grip of your good hand as you drink.

Oktober walks past you to reach the remote of the television. She turns on the screen and turns down the volume to 2, changing channels with one thumb. "I almost forgot they're showing a _SpongeBob_ marathon today." She comments and you look up at her curiously. Oktober's lips twitch in a smile. "Settle in, James. Steve and I need to have a word. We'll be right back."

 

They walk into one of the bedrooms but leave the door open. They speak in whispers but you are so well trained, to listen, to pry.

You sit still, ignoring the images on the television screen and you make out their words. 

"As soon as the word treatment was mentioned he stressed out,” Steve mentions. “He looked at me in the eyes and begged me, Natasha." 

"It's too soon, Steve. He won't open up now, some people never do, but he needs to know that he has friends, that he's not alone in this."

"The triggers− I'm just not ready to handle that, I'm afraid that I'm not what he needs now."

"You are his best friend, Rogers. You are exactly what he needs."

"He doesn't remember me."

"But you remember him."

There's a silent moment. You shift your gaze. Window, door, window.

You hear her breathe out. "I'm with you. I'll be here for you both."

"I'm sorry, Natasha. I can't help it but feel worried."

"I can manage it." 

"I know, but I can't."

"Listen. I've been through this, remember? Right now James is in a state of dissociation, it's his brain trying to protect himself from trauma, and that started since the punishments we got him out of. The trigger he experienced wasn't even from something in the present, means he is not here. You read it on the files, for HYDRA it was a necessity to keep him like that. Be patient with him. He'll come back to you."

 

You ask yourself, without wanting. Will I?


	5. Furnace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings: Brief mention of dissociating and talks depicting mild violence and swearing.

"This is the spare room of the apartment," Steve explains when it's dark outside and Steve has made you brush your teeth. "I'm next door, all you have to do is call me. If you need anything."

 It's weird to come back to a bed you've already slept in. A room you know and remember. Even if it's not yours. You stare at your surroundings, wide eyed, as Steve turns on a lamp on the bedside table.

 "You need a shower," Steve murmurs, almost dutifully.

(Someone strip that bastard and get water run over his space, he's living in his own vomit. It fucking stinks in there.)

 "Tomorrow." Steve finishes gently as he unmakes the bed. 

The light stays on.

You lie down.

You wait.

Sleep doesn't come, it just keeps your eyes closed.

  

 

Silence engulfs Steve's apartment. You remember listening into this exact silence, before. With a name in your head, a face to go with it, and the weight of an M4 in your hands 

Your eyes snap open. Did you fall asleep? You are careful not to move, as to not alert Steve. Your eyes figure out more light, aside the one of the lamp next to you, it comes from the hall.

"He cannot be held custody for the crimes," you hear Oktober muttering, her dark shadow leaning over the apartment’s door frame. "Yet."

"Yet." Steve echoes, an skeptical tone on his voice. 

"The winter soldier's crimes, as revealed to the public, are matter of several nations." 

"So you are saying they'll come to get him the day they decide which country gets the first trial." 

Oktober shakes her head and shifts her position. "It's complicated, Steve. It's all over the files, James' innocence, they're just looking for a loose thread before going in."

 Steve drops his head to massage the bridge of his nose.

"We're safe. I'm keeping both of you safe," Oktober continues.

"What about your blown cover?"

"Right now my priority has been Barnes. I'm working everything I know to evade the trial." Oktober exhales and gathers herself. "The encryption of the files has most of HYDRA safe, but I'm working on it. If they send him to court we have enough evidence to get him witness protection and victim assistance." 

"HYDRA is gone." 

"As an organized criminal group, yes. It has been dismantled. But they have yet to be prosecuted as criminal offenders." 

"What if they take him, and he lashes out and he gives them a reason."

You don't get Oktober's response.

 

 

 

When you come back, to the here and now, your gaze is fixed on a blue plastic curtain. Your arms embracing your naked body, you are curled in on yourself and warm water runs over your skin. You don't remember getting into the shower and certainly don't know how much it has been since you got in.

You move to get up, doing your best to avoid looking at your body. Steve must have ordered you to get clean and if you don't come out soon you'll make him angry. You are not used to this, but remember the staff who used to be in charge of your personal hygiene, and those who were there to tend your wounds once a mission was over. Those who fed you through a tube to make sure you wouldn't die. All those persons meant to keep the machine working.

You run your good hand through your hair multiple times until it stops feeling rough and filthy. You trace your fingers over your scalp, somewhere in the back of your head. The hair has been shaved off on a small part and your fingertips run over stitches you assume were done to you while unconscious. You aren't surprised when you see dried blood in your fingernails.


	6. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings: Brief mentions of violence (graphic), manipulation, self-harm (graphic), flashbacks, suicide ideation (graphic).
> 
> Some of the passages in this chapter were inspired by the song 'Werewolf' by Coco Rosie.

They say they put you to sleep again, but you don't remember. Steve apologizes dearly, red rimming his eyes, knuckles going white. The stitches are gone, you like to run your flesh fingers where they used to be. A blank space, healed scabs, little holes within you. Oktober tells you to stop doing that and you do until you are alone again and you learn the language of the beaten, of those who beat you. You find pleasure for the first time. You like to imagine how it went. What object did they use to bang against your skull. You like to imagine the sound it produced and the feel of it. You imagine it was deep, that it reached you to your core and that you held back a grunt. Maybe you fell limply to the floor, like the ragged bag of bones you are. You imagine you were a bloodied pulp on the ground and it gives you peace.

 

* * *

 

Sam comes over the next evening. You are sitting in front of the television as a cartoon show plays with almost no sound, the way you like it. Steve's phone vibrates against the wood of the kitchen table. You wince painfully as a strange wave of cold sweat runs over you. Oktober shushes you gently as she glares at Steve.

"Sorry," he mouths at her. "It's alright, Buck, it's only Sam letting me know he's outside. 

In response you don't look at him. 

"Silence mode," Oktober hisses at Steve before he opens the door. 

Then he comes in, using crutches to walk without putting weight on his broken leg. He smiles and greets but you stare at him. You remember how P**RCE had entered the chamber, left arm in a sling because your broke his wrist when you were unstable. He had you kneeling before him for hours, while he sat and drank with other authority figures. You were his plaything that night, his trophy. He'd yanked you by your hair to make you look at him and slap you across the face  and spit at you whenever he felt like it. He kicked you as you lied tied on the ground until some of your ribs punctured your lungs and held your head on his lap as he explained how all that had been necessary. 

"−cky?" 

You swallow the bile in your mouth before looking up in search of Sam's eyes (a sign of honesty, remorse) and say: "I'm sorry".

"Hey, hey Bucky, it's okay. No harsh feelings, it wasn't your fault." 

"I… did that, I deserve−" You stop talking. You don't get a say in that. 

"No, no. It's cool, we're cool." Sam continues, a worried smile on his face. You don't know how to react so you close your mouth and stare at him. "Seriously, besides, this is nothing. I've had it way worse." 

Beside him Steve is looking at you like you are a ticking bomb but Sam continues to smile. Oktober resumes painting her nails. On the screen the coyote chases the roadrunner with a fork and a knife. You nod at Sam. 

"So, ah. Nat brought dinner," Steve starts nervously, bringing a hand to the back of his head.

Oktober blows at her nails and gets up, heading for the refrigerator. "Kasha," she says, taking out a container and pointedly looking at you. "And stroganoff." You look away from her. 

"Damn, Nat." Sam chuckles. "How do you find time to _cook_?"

Window. Door. Window.

"Rogers, get a microwave or find a way to heat this up quick."

"Please, nothing's better than low heat cooking."

"Sometimes I actually forget you were born in 1918." 

Window. Door. Window. 

"James?" You startle at the sound of one of your names. Your gaze fixes back on Oktober. "Do you want beef stroganoff or kasha?"

You haven't thrown up the shakes they've been giving you as meals and your stomach growls at the mention of food, but you're too afraid you'll fuck up. 

Your fists clench. 

They must be mocking you. They offer you food, they _make_ you choose, make you believe you will be properly fed only to laugh in your face later. _(You really thought you were gonna eat some of this? You really think you deserve to have what we're having?)_  

"I swear the kasha isn't cooked up to a _mush_ ," Oktober resumes and pulls you out of your thoughts like a whiplash. "It's good, okay? Dry and fluffy." 

"I'll serve you some of it, Buck." Steve comments at your silence and unsure eyes.

They set the table. Placemats and plates and cups and sets of cutlery. They sit down and you watch them from the living room. There's a fourth dinner service, with a bowl with kasha and a plastic cup with the familiar replacement shake, only this time it has a pink color instead of brown. Everyone smiles when you take a seat, but for you it feels like you are disobeying. Over dinner Sam tells a joke. Or what you assume is a joke because it evokes a soft chuckle from Steve. Its nature is so familiar it makes you feel empty inside. You can see Steve, or a younger version of him, more innocent, more light in his blue eyes, laughing. And you can remember that you laughed, too. You were… sinless, you and Steve were really friends. In another life. The thought dies like a small flickering light. It's all gone and you doubt it ever existed.

Sam and Oktober are in the kitchen. He's washing the dishes, Steve explains. 

"Hey Nat," says Sam. She lifts her head from the book she's reading on the kitchen table.

"Hmm." 

"How do you remove grease from the pan? Do I use the sponge or the fiber thing?"

Oktober rolls her eyes and stands up, taking the pan from Sam's hands. "You use warm water and soap, then scrub with a soft sponge and rinse with cold water. What could be easier?" 

"I don't know. Make you do it for me?" Sam laughs.

Oktober goes from vaguely annoyed to murderous in an instant and raises the pan over Sam's head but Steve's there and  takes it from her hand.

"No things flying in the kitchen, please."

"Steve, you take away all the fun," Oktober mumbles, handing the pan back to Sam, avoiding the crutches that are leaning on the counter as she goes back to her seat.

You turn your gaze at Steve and look at him until his eyes widen and he says, "Bucky?"

"How did it happen?" You ask him in a whisper so that only he can hear you and you tilt your head at Sam.

The look on Steve's face is puzzled. "You don't remember?"

You look at him blankly before shaking your head.

"Buck, don't do this to yourself, please, it was−"

 _A glitch,_ you think instantly. _A malfunction._  

"Just tell me what the fuck happened," you interrupt him. 

Steve shuts his eyes, stricken. "After you broke my arm Sam tried to hold you back. You took him down and broke his leg when he tried to get away." 

You feel yourself cringing.

 

* * *

 

"You don't have to do this, Sam." Steve warns. They're standing in the doorway. You've been lying on the couch with your eyes closed for a while now, they must think you're asleep. 

"No, man." Sam objects. "I know I don't have to but I want to.

You feel yourself getting sick at his words. You wish Sam would shout at you for trying to kill him, for breaking his wings and his body. You _fantasize_ with him hurting you back so you can live with yourself and the guilt that's scratching its way from your insides. You wish he would get away from you, at least.

You are sleepless again. You have to make sure Steve is slumbering in his bedroom so he doesn't hear your footsteps padding around his apartment like an injured cat. You check the windows, peeking from the closed curtain, for HYDRA snipers on the roofs of the neighbor buildings. You open cupboards, cabinets, and scan shelves and every piece of furniture in search of bugs or cameras and when you are finished you feel somewhat calmer. And then the memory of you lashing out at Sam and Steve hits you. You hear all their yelling again and you see yourself like the monster that has been made of you and you don't want to be _it_. 

Your breath catches in your throat. You feel like you are going to puke so you go to the bathroom and lean over the porcelain sink, unable to make it to the toilet. You press at your abdomen and retch but nothing comes up. When you look back up you remember the contents of the cabinet, so you open it and take one of Steve's razor blades without shifting the position of the other objects there.

Its shiny metal edge resembles your pale eyes in your reflection. Your handlers used to press a knife's edge to your skin whenever they had you in their possession. They would press their thumbs to your cheek along with the blade and they'd look at you, a grin painted on their faces. (Will you be a good boy this time? Yes. Yes what. Yes sir). They'd slice you across your cheekbone, your chin, your eyebrow, your lips, the inside your mouth.

You listen to a silence that confirms Steve remains asleep, unknowing of what you're doing. You push the bathroom door slowly until it clicks closed and turn on the lights. You look away from the mirror, still not used to seeing your face, and roll up the sleeve of the hospital gown. You press the blade to your upper bicep, a spot you can hide easily. You don't care enough to avoid your cephalic vein and don't know if you've cut it until blood starts gushing down the length of your arm.

Your blood, you keep in mind and focus only on the pain. You cut again, vertically but not on a vein. It feels like everything comes back to balance, the ache from the inside disappearing as a deep sting lights up on the outside. It's not the first time that you've injured yourself. By accident, breaking a wrist as you tried to free yourself from the chair. On purpose, dragging the needle of your IV through your flesh, trying to find an artery. It feels all the same. It feels like control.

You clean up your mess with toilet paper and flush it down the toilet. You wipe your arm clean and take the razor with you to your bedroom, hide it between one of the legs of the bed and the carpet. You press down where it stings and it helps you feel like a living thing again, not a machine, something that's fragile, something that bleeds and can do something to stop the blood from coming.

 

* * *

 

"I dreamed I was a wolf," Oktober says. She's been sitting in silence next to you on the dining table. Steve and Sam left to a VA meeting and she's here with you. You look up at her, inquisitive. "I was running through the woods and the wind sang in my ears like a howl." Her voice is raspy and when she tells you this and the words match the expression in her eyes perfectly. "My fur was a dark gray and I smelled fire, smoke, and the color red tinted everything."

"What does it mean?" You ask her after a while.

She sips on her steaming cup of tea. "I don't know, James."

You picture a wolf. Bared fangs, nose scrunched up, hair on end. Paws like punches and knifes, stark hind legs. You could be the wolf.

"Do you ever dream anything like that?" Oktober asks you.

You don't think that you dream. You can't sleep so you don't. Sometimes you pass out unable to go another minute without slumber, and sometimes you hallucinate but you can't tell the difference. "I dream that I am--" you never see yourself so it is hard to explain, it is only the way you feel. "A thing," you say, "a ragdoll."

"What is it like?"

You mull over the memory of it before you continue, "there are voices around." 

"What do they say?" 

"They say that I'm their bitch," you explain. "They tell me I am a machine. They mock me and say I'm a weeping blossom and they challenge me to wallow louder. They say _'bow down'_ , they say _'on your knees and pray'_ , they say _'come closer'_. They're alligators convulsing in laughter."

"Can you tell if they're real or not?"

"They're always real."

 

* * *

 

They keep bringing you things.

It gives you trouble. You know you shouldn't accept this, you couldn't possibly have earned _all of it._ Every time Sam steps through the door he has something brand new for you. Socks, coloring books and colored pencils, a new toothbrush, blankets, a tablet. Steve brings you more clothes one day even when you have a pile stocked in your room, ignored. He wants you to stop wearing the hospital gown, wants you to wear something less depressing. You feel like once you are dressed he'll want you to go outside and you'll just let him down once again. What he brings this time are several t-shirts, fabric soft at the touch of your flesh hand, which is what makes you change after a shower.

 

* * *

 

The nightmares come at once. It's as if all this time you haven't been in your body, not really, just seeing everything from a distance (overwatching. Ready to neutralize on order). Your way to be far from the hell that is your mind. Not just from the uncomfortable feeling that you shouldn't be here −you don't belong here, you should be dead− it's the constant images that your brain provides. Faces and names, their screams for mercy and their dead bodies killed in such a violent manner that they're barely recognizable anymore, bent in an inhuman way. It haunts you, day and night, and when your body can no longer function without sleeping everything just becomes ten times more vivid. You come back to your senses and your limbs are trashing, your jaw is locked and your teeth gritting so hard it hurts. You sob loudly even when it's over because deep down you know that it never will be.

You notice Steve crouching next to you. You don't know how long he's been there but he's careful not to touch you and instead focuses on calling your name. Calm yet apprehensive. The syllables start to stir something inside of you and you rather focus on that. But there's more than your name in there. It's the way Steve says it, like he's praying the rosary unendingly. A sequence of instructions that is continually repeated until a certain condition is reached. He prays your name like he's found the meaning of dying in it. Tiny waves of shivers run freely down your spine. Your crying grows weaker and weaker until it no longer is, you groan and wipe your face. At four in the morning you are standing drenched in cold sweat and piss and with your metal hand gripping tightly your flesh wrist in the attempt to stop feeling so ashamed of yourself. Steve talks you down, reassuring you and affirming that everything is alright while removing the wet, stained sheets from the mattress. 

 

* * *

 

After Rumlow, after the soldiers and the beatings. After the missions, the vivisections, the endurance of decades of torture, you are brain damaged. Those words make you feel incomplete, worn and useless. You are supposed to be free but your mind feels a like a cage. Your time with Steve and Sam and Oktober has turned you more aware of everything and you wish against it. One evening you are watching a movie with Sam and Steve and find the meaning of the word _panic_ when you look up and see the Soldier standing next to the door, paralyzed like a statue, eyes fixed on Steve. You want to convince yourself that it's your mind playing you tricks, and you could bear it if it wouldn't frighten you so much to see it in real life, not just an image in your head. The Soldier is you, you are your own worst nightmare. 

"Bucky?" You hear Sam calling. 

Your chest heaves as your breathing becomes more erratic.

"Bucky, is everything alright?" Steve asks, worry filling up his voice. The Soldier does not move, does not emote. It lurks in the shadows and registers every move from its target waiting for the perfect time to neutralize it.

You swallow bile. Your jaw is locked and you can't look away. There's something disturbing in seeing yourself out of your body. Of knowing that you were the Soldier not long ago and that it was you that countless times lurked in the shadows and stayed very still and held the gun. 

"Bucky, can you breathe slowly and steadily? Deep breaths that come from your core," Sam says.

You try to do as he says.

"Can you shift your position? Try wiggling your fingers. Remember you are in control of what your body is doing here and now."

You don't register Steve touching you but know he did because the Soldier moves its eyes, following Steve's movement. It is so real that you can't tell if you are awake or dreaming. 

"Steve, wait," says Sam. "Can you look at me, Bucky?" 

You bite your bottom lip and force yourself to look down, away from it. Air fills your lungs and you turn your head at Sam. The command all too familiar _(look at me bitch, see your pretty blue eyes, too broken. You are not a threat to us bitch, you are nothing)_ but when Sam looks back at you it subtracts the effect. His eyes are wide but focused, gentle and hopeful.

"Good, that's good, keep breathing like that."

You nod, groaning when the tension in your throat diminishes. When you look up again the Soldier isn't there. 

It becomes a constant fight between yourself and the Soldier. And although you know none of it was real and you can now look at Steve, suddenly glad that he's still alive, the Soldier still wins, he will wins every single day, lurking in the corners, you will see him everywhere and you'll be forever haunted by the ghost of you.

 

* * *

 

Sam gives you a notebook and a set of colored pens and tells you you should write something down. When you ask him what he says anything that comes to mind. But there's a volt of thoughts in your mind at all times and nothing the minute after. The words do not suit your needs. You sit there at night when you wake up from a nightmare and hold a pen on your hand for hours, frustrated of all the things you could write but you don't want to because it's so _filthy_. You couldn't stand to read that trail of thoughts and sentences.

You write some words when you are sick of seeing the page left blank.

 

       Blue

 

 

Sea            

                          vein

                                          half

 

                                                             ~~blood~~ flood

 Dark                   hurts                           it     I

 

 

     fuck                            erase

 

start

    over

 

 

come

  

                                  clean

 

* * *

 

At night you stay up, monitoring Steve's movements to find a moment for yourself.

Steve has nightmares, too. You hear him stir and trash and groan in his sleep but you never have the guts to approach him like he does with you. When he wakes you up gently and lulls you back to sleep. You are useless as you hear him suffer in his sleep. Meanwhile you stay put on the hallway, chewing on your bottom lip and waiting for the noises to stop coming. When they stop you wait before searching for bugs and cameras like that other night.

When you are finished, searching thoroughly like a hound, you take a lungful of air and relief. But tonight that is not enough. Not enough to pass the night and surely not enough to fall asleep. You keep your socks on and unlock the front door with the keys on the small table adjacent. Fluorescent lights submerge the halls like a halo. You listen intently to the silence, awaiting for the click of a pistol cocking, or a careless misplaced step. The only thing you hear is an occasional car on the street, a child's crying and the ringing on your ears.

You climb the stairs like you are on a mission, the only thing lacking is a rifle resting in your arm, but the lethality carved into you remains, and you move like you are hunting in an estranged place. The building's tenants seem to be all asleep on the dead of the night and you can confirm that Steve's apartment is soundproof, for you have never heard them before. When you reach the rooftop you make your way out forcing the locks with the metal arm like you are desperate for a breath of fresh air. You are presented with a swirl of cold air as you swing the door open.

And 

The barrel of a gun

A man holding a SIG-Sauer 516 is behind the door, brow furrowed, grip steady. He doesn't shoot but you are already shielding yourself from harm with the metal arm like a well-learned reflex, like the machine you are 

"Sergeant Barnes?" The man asks, lowering the rifle.

You stayed fixed where you are, thinking: if this was a mission, the target would've run away, this error would be punished. Rumlow. The other soldiers. Carving into skin, spitting over, breaking, beating. Gun. Hip. Swollen. Battered lips. 

"Who are you?" You have to swallow bile to mutter the question. You try not to go on defensive as you search him with your eyes, but your posture changes, ready to block shots with the metal arm and disarm afterwards. 

The man looks at you in the eye, inspecting your reaction before he pulls down the rifle, resting the barrel on the ground. "Frank Castle," he says. "Didn't mean to startle you."

You grind your teeth as you form a fist with your left. 

"'s alright," he continues and looks away. "I've nothing against you."

"What are you doing here?" You ask, tracking his motions but he minds the rifle like he doesn't care if you were to disarm him and kill him right there. 

"The Captain," Frank says, "Romanov." He makes a pause and shifts his weight as if an old injury is bothering him. "They asked me to watch over your building." He says, a thick urban accent marked in his words. 

"What did they tell you?" 

"About HYDRA agents?" 

You nod.

"That they shouldn't have any more reasons to hunt you, but there could be an exception."

"Why?" You ask but you know. Even though P****E's head has been cut off there are meant two more to take its place. And they need you back to wipe you and reuse you, or to terminate you now that the other soldiers are out.

"You are a loose thread," Frank says. 

You eye him up and down curiously. He could be lying, could be an agent himself, he could be luring you into your own death and you are willing to take his hand and let him take you. A sigh escapes you and you walk to the edge of the rooftop, crouching and then sitting down, a sting like a puncture on your lower back. 

Frank approaches you, one combat boot stepping over the edge of the building. "Can't sleep?" He asks.

"Like most nights," you reply.

Frank makes a face and clicks his tongue. "You were making rounds, eh?"

You say nothing because you don't feel obligated to, unlike with Sam or Steve. Oktober isn't as demanding as them, she understands silence and you prefer silence over words.

"If it helps," Frank continues, "we haven't seen anything out of normal so far." 

You don't know what does he means with 'we'. You suppose there are more than one ex-SHIELD agent that would continue to follow Captain America's orders after all that's happened. Frank grunts as he settles down beside you, keeping his distance and never turning his head to look at you. You eye him up and down and you know he served, the stiffness of his posture, the steadiness in his hands, the high and tight cut of his hair, the shape of his nose like it's been broken several times and misshaped it. You doubt he ever was with SHIELD.

"I know what it's like," Frank says. "Turning your head to see behind your back when on the streets, positive that there's someone following you." You almost scoff. The furthest you've gotten has been right here, the rooftop of the building where you live, and even then, most days you consider an achievement to get out of bed. "Nightmares that shake through you like a strike," he continues. "In the morning you are exhausted," Frank makes a pause.  You stare at your feet, dangling over the edge. "Like you are losing a battle against yourself every damn night."

"How long have they paid you to be here?" You ask, meaning to get information before going back.

"Six months," he replies. 

 _Six months_ , your head echoes. It's been half a year and most of it feels like a blur. Like frames of an old jagged film. Time doesn't touch you, you can only scratch form inside out. You could be a ghost for all you know. Haunting those who don't accept you're gone for good. Haunting Steve. 

You get on your feet in a swift movement. You still have the balance from the Red Room, you think as you give your back to the precipice. Frank gets up himself like he owes you that and you feel sick.

"Sergeant," he says.

"Castle," you answer and try not to feel the strangeness in how wrong it is to walk away from a trained marksman. 

 

* * *

 

The key makes a muted click sound when you unlock the door. You get back inside after making sure everything looks normal. You go to your room to retrieve the blade you stole and take it to the bathroom. You slash your wrists and press down with your fingernails at the wounds, loving the sharpness that burns and the warmth of your blood and it feels right to endure and enjoy aversion. To be your own handler. 

You clean yourself and clean any trail of blood forgotten on the pristine tiles of the bathroom. You change into a long sleeved t-shirt to hide the marks and move to the couch to pass what's left of the night. You are facing the door and you close your eyes. It burns behind your eyelids and you wait until it's gone, pressing with your fingertips. When you open your eyes again your gaze fixes on the door and the Soldier is there. It looks in your direction but you can only focus on his bloodied hands and the knife he's holding. Neither of you move. Neither of you bat an eyelash. The Soldier is challenging you, you know. It wants to remind you that the Soldier will always be a part of you, engraved deeply and painfully to your core. That even if you make it through the nights and you begin to turn into the Sergeant again, the Soldier will be lurking. Waiting for a moment to take over you and kill Steve.

To finish the mission.

You breathe out and don't breathe back in until you have spots in your vision. 

Even as the Sergeant you are malfunctioning and Steve's life is still on the line. After all that he's done for you, the Soldier could still reappear. You are so useless for not being able to stop causing harm, because you know you can't kill the Soldier. 

Unless 

Your metal hand wraps around the recently injured wrist and it bites and it bites harder until the Soldier has vanished and gone. 

You don't have to kill the Soldier, just yourself. 

The thought swims in your head as your body is pinned by an invisible force, making you quiet and paralyzed.

But you are so familiar with ammunition that you can't stop thinking how a 9mm would feel in your brain. How flawlessly it would puncture your skull and end with your life and the Soldier's with little effort.

 


	7. Benign

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of suicide ideation (mild). Several mentions of violence **(graphic)** , medical abuse (graphic), throwing up (graphic), self-harm (graphic), dissociation (graphic). 
> 
> There's an excerpt taken from _Captain America_ Vol 5 #11

As the days keep passing you try to convince yourself that the Soldier is gone. The asset is no more, you have to become that man who believed in salvation, a man who screamed himself hoarse in search of a helping hand. Although salvation is no longer an option maybe you start to believe in forgiveness. Or redemption. But being closer to being 'Bucky Barnes' also means being more human. That part of you that you hid in yourself, forgotten like an useless object. It makes you weak. You find yourself getting weaker by the minute, afraid you won't be able to endure what will happen next. Not when you already feel like dying. And not when your tricks would outnumber Steve's and there wouldn't be anybody to keep you alive against your will.

Trying to recover is all but easy. The more you come back the more you feel like you want to fade. It's like fighting a wall, you can't throw some punches and not get hurt during the process. But you try anyway. Steve tells Sam you're becoming more responsive. You don't agree with him and although you have bad days in which you can't stand to get out of bed and you yell at Steve for offering you food or checking on you, everyone else seems to be happy with your so called progress.

Sometimes you are convinced that you don't deserve the bed so Steve finds you at six in the morning curled on the cold tiled floor of the doorway. And other days your screeching wakes Steve up. It's like that very often. He is always by your side when you come back to consciousness, calling your name softly yet firmly.

This time, the Soldier is there too. His figure is dark, like he is made of a thousand fires' smoke and he is bulky like carved of stone.

The digital clock on the nightstand reads 3:42 am with green flickers.

Your clothes are drenched in sweat and your skin feels cold. It runs shivers to remind you of its presence. Since you woke up, trashing limbs and shuddering sobs, the clock's numbers have changed. But you don't know how much.

"Can I read to you?" Steve asks from the armchair in one corner of the room. He is sitting there because you shoved him when he tried to get closer. You can't allow Steve near you, not when the Soldier is right there, waiting to attack and finish the mission.

"Bucky?" Steve calls worriedly and you realize you haven't answered his question. You know he has good intentions and he's probably feeling helpless right now so you nod your head to amuse him.

You and the Soldier watch Steve rise to his feet with a sigh and take your tablet from top of the desk. The Soldier doesn't move and neither do you and you dig your nails into your palm in an attempt to make it disappear. Steve sits back at the armchair and the tablet makes a soft click as he unlocks it and proceeds to tap on it. Sam and Oktober have downloaded books and applications into the tablet but you haven't felt attracted to it, so you don't know what Steve is browsing. He doesn't attempt to meet your eyes when he says, "It's called _The Velveteen Rabbit_."

You shuffle closer to the wall and bring your knees up to wrap your arms around them.

"There was once a velveteen rabbit," Steve says with a melodic narration, "and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen.

"On Christmas morning, when he sat wedged in the top of the Boy's stocking, with a sprig of holly between his paws, the effect was charming. There were other things in the stocking, nuts and oranges and a toy engine, and chocolate almonds and a clockwork mouse, but the Rabbit was quite the best of all. For at least two hours the Boy loved him, and then Aunts and Uncles came to dinner, and there was a great rustling of tissue paper and unwrapping of parcels, and in the excitement of looking at all the new presents the Velveteen Rabbit was forgotten." 

In your head, the Boy's eyes are crystal blue, pure and bright and alive, his hair is like sunshine and gold and his pink lips curved into a soft smile when he saw the rabbit for the first time.

In your head, the Aunts and Uncles have four faces filled with twisted grins and wear impeccable suits.

 

* * *

 

They will leave before dawn, not before being sure that you are lying on the couch with the TV on. 

"Where is Sam?" You dare asking, afraid of what you'll come up with if you don't have supervision. 

"He's in Alabama, visiting his grandmother," Oktober explains. A cold rush of guilt makes you look down. How could you be so selfish to think Sam doesn't have a family that he actually cares about. He's not your goddamn babysitter.

"Are you going to be alright, Bucky?" Steve asks you. 

You nod miserable because you are supposed to be able to watch over yourself but apparently you are not able to even do that. 

Sunglasses on even though it's dark outside, they exit the apartment. 

You have a stomachache so you don't eat the breakfast Steve left for you in the refrigerator.

It's been several hours since Steve and Oktober left the apartment to talk with two attorneys at law, regarding your case. You are aware of the crimes you've committed, _are you ever._ Yet when you ask Steve when is The People v. James Barnes going to proceed Steve says it's not. Oktober tells you not to worry, but neither want to tell you much about their work, so all you end up doing is waiting and feeling sick while they're gone. Discussing you, your murders and your other crimes.

You mute the television so you can hear when they're back and head to Steve's bedroom. You know your original file is in here because you heard it in one of his conversations with Oktober. Everything in Steve's room is in complete order, something that reflects how his mind works. Organizing, assigning everything a place to be, which only makes finding the small security box easier, behind the return air grille. You retrieve the box to the living room and place it on the coffee table to force it open. 

Inside, a Glock 19 lays next to a stack of hundred bills. You take out the objects to find a brown folder, all is written in Cyrillic letters, beginning with  _Case No. 17_. You take the file in your hands, it's thick with its contents but the second line reads _VOLUME No. 20_. The folder has folded corners and creases, like it's been read multiple times before Steve stored it. You trace the fingers of your good hand over the cover and move it down as you read.

_Regarding the winter soldier._

_Raneye izvestnyy kak Serzhant Dzheyms B'yukenen Barns 107-y, seriynyy nomber 32557241_

Formerly known as Sargent James Buchanan Barnes.

The first thing you see as you flip the cover open is a picture of you inside the cryostasis chamber and on a lower corner, a photograph of yourself, as the old Bucky, is clipped to the file. You stare down at it for what seems like hours, trying and failing to convince yourself that the two pictures portray the same man. The old Bucky looks innocent. Ignorant and gullible. More so than the pictures at the Smithsonian. This picture was taken before the war.

You flip through the pages, getting a glimpse of the contents inside like a vivid flashback. You see the pictures of your missions, of dead bodies with blocked faces, and your brain provides with the rest of the sensory information. The silent pull of a trigger, a grunt, a gush of blood coming out of the back of a head, an ear-splitting cry, the itching smell of gunpowder inside your throat.

You taste blood on your tongue and know you've bit down too hard. Your heart is throbbing and your ears are ringing and everything is out of place and spinning in the room and your breath hitches and you close your eyes like denial is going to erase what you've done to these people. You can't bring yourself to look at the pictures again and it makes you feel like a coward. You should be the one with the bullet holes not them, _not them_. You groan and swallow bile and blood before forcing yourself to stare at the pictures of the killings again. For each one you know there are two more missing in the file, and one more than never made it to HYDRA's registry. For each face blocked with a dark stain you make yourself remember a pair of eyes, an expression and a name written on paper. For every mission report you remember a handler ignoring you or calling you a good boy or smacking your face for being too slow. At the end of it you are hurling next to the couch, your inner organs contracting painfully.

Cold sweat falls into your eyes, blurring your vision. You feel detached, like a small conscious sphere with no corporeality, just pain and guilt and hatred for itself. It's difficult to find your body again, and when you do it hurts to move, it feels like you are being pinned down so you wait until they're off of you.

 _"Zhelaniye,"_ a voice in your head mutters and you start.

You close your eyes and press down hard because this isn't real, this isn't real anymore. The metal hand around your wrist, where the previous slashes are, and you scratch down until the burning sting shuts the voice down and all you can feel is pain.

 

* * *

 

It's dark outside when your eyes snap open. You are lying on the floor, next to your vomit, and blood stains the carpet and the clothes Steve gave to you. On the coffee table the file rests where you left it, unstirred and inoffensive like the thing doesn't store demons and ghosts inside. You can't even bother to clean up after yourself, the images of screaming innocent people screeching in your brain every time you blink. Some force allows you to sit up and take the file back in your hands and it's like the thing is alive. You open it again, finding a different section now. 

 _MAJOR GENERAL VASILY_ **███**

_HEAD OF SPECIAL SECTION_

_DEPARTMENT X_  

_TOP KGB CLEARANCE ONLY_

_Project: Winter Soldier -_

_June 1954_  

  **███** ' _s man at MI-6,_ **████** _, has proved his worth. The Schematics for Advanced Robotic Appendages and Attachment he provided two months past were revolutionary. Our science team finished a working prototype and attached it to the American without incident. With the new appendage in place. Clarence was given for Department X to begin work on the Winter Soldier Project._

_It has long been my plan to turn this American symbol back against our enemies. He was not aid to developing our own Super-Soldiers, but he will still be a valuable tool, in the right hands._

 

 

_DAMAGED MUSCLE REPLACEMENT_

 

_Trapezius_

_Pectoralis Major_

_Pectoralis Minor_

_Subclavius_

_Serratus anterior_

_Rotator cuff_

_Deltoid_

_Latissimus dorsi_

_Triceps brachii_

_Brachioradialis_

 

 

_Binnacle for the registry of the Soldier's case._

_ENTRY NO. 41_

**████** _has used detailed mental memories of traumatic events from the past that occurred when the Soldier was partially or fully conscious for the experiments in Mental Implantation. The memories frequently used were experiences with DR._ **███** _, precisely when the surgeries took place without anesthetization. Furthermore, the Soldier shows apprehension and anticipation just seeing DR._ **███**.

_ENTRY NO. 55_

_The Soldier has been shut in a cell inside a bunker, alone and in complete darkness for 72 hrs. to continue the experiments in Mental Implantation. Results are to be awaited._

  _ENTRY NO. 62_

 _The Soldier's CT scan (attached) shows significant structural brain damage (bruising of the brain surface and  shows of edema). DR._ **███** _claims that it was caused by the shock treatment, which has been used to manipulate the Soldier back to proper behavior when disobedient. In addition,_ **████** **** _has successfully designed a memory-wiping machine, which uses a voltage as high as 640 volts. The purpose of this machine has been achieved, to cause retrograde amnesia (RA) in the Soldier, that is to say_ _a_ _loss of memory-access to events that occurred, or information that was learned, before the use of the machine._

 _It is worth mentioning that the Soldier is under continuous training. This prevents the Soldier to forget the skills that have been implanted. This training is both physical and regarding the use of weaponry and the tactics needed to become more lethal with less effort. The Soldier has learnt vital points in the human body to operate mortal strikes as soon as he approaches the target if unarmed._  

_ENTRY NO. 65_

_The Soldier's handlers have noticed his behaviour during imprisonment. Constant noises from the Soldier's cell caught the attention of the guards, who found him banging his head against the cement walls. The nurses had to sedate the Soldier to make him stop, as he disobeyed the guard's orders. Nevertheless, bite marks have been found on the Soldier's skin after long periods of isolation._ **████** **** _h_ _as ordered to keep the Soldier inside the cryo chamber when not required._

_ENTRY NO. 71_

  **███** _has proposed to recreate the experiments on learned hopelessness on the Soldier. This procedure, if successful, will avoid the Soldier to keep lashing out at the handlers, nurses, technicians and doctors. It is true that the Soldier has been exposed to aversive stimuli with no possibility of escape before (see: Entry 28). One example of this are the vivisections. Every surgical procedure has been underwent by the Soldier without anesthesia. In the beginning it provoked volatile reactions, like screaming and squirming under the restraints, which only induced more pain. Although with the continuity of the vivisections, the Soldier has adopted a new repertoire of behaviors in the duration of them, such as biting his tongue or bleeding his palms with his nails. This has made the nurses to appeal the use of mouth guard and different leather straps to prevent self-harm from the Soldier._

 

 _Currently, the experiments on learned hopelessness will consist of_ −

You stop.

Your eyes dart to the next page of the file, where there are pictures one on top of the other. They're frames of a security camera's video. The lighting looks like a blue filter, and the blood oozing from your stomach looks black. A medic holds a sharp apparatus with one hand and throughout the frames you are screaming, or a pained and scared expression rules your face, but the medic acts like you are a chunk of flesh 

You turn the pages and don't bother to read the heavily redacted text on the following entries. There are blueprints of the chair, and pictures of it with its different modifications. There are small notes with drug measures and their effects. There are photographs of your good arm, flesh pulled apart by forceps revealing fractured bones and damaged muscle tissue. There are photos of technicians and doctors working on you like a dysfunctional machine, angling your head to their taste and your face looks worn as your cheekbones look prominent. 

The last pictures in the file you don't see enough but you are aware that your subconscious has caught a glimpse of them, and in case you had forgotten them, the memories will be back when you close your eyes. Finally the last photographs show you on the chair, trying to pull away from the electricity running through you multiple times until the next picture has you passed out with a dark liquid slipping out of the mouth guard into your jawbone. 

 

* * *

 

It feels like nothing's happened the moment you come back from being checked out but Steve is unlocking the door, calling for you with a lighthearted tone until he turns and sees you. You move your gaze to your surroundings and your body starts feeling again, heavy and rigid and tight. The TV is still on, untouched since Steve turned it on this morning and now _Doctor McStuffins_ is showing.

"Bucky, what the hell happened?" Steve says, rushing to your side. 

He looks genuinely pissed when he sees the file.

"Why did you take this?" Steve asks, blue pools of patience and rage in his eyes.

There is humiliation in your voice when you reply, "I didn't want to."

"Bucky, listen to me," Steve kneels beside you, like he's confessing and asking for forgiveness for something that isn't his fault. "It's okay now," he says. " _It's over._ It's over and I'll never let them take you again. It's okay," he shushes. "It's okay."

But you know it's not. You couldn't possibly believe that. It's not okay because you understand the noise of someone choking on their own blood through a slit throat. Gurgling and nauseating. Like retching and spitting red. Steve shuffles closer to you as you start to sob, shielding your face with the crook of your arm. 

You don't know what's worse. What you did or what they did to you.

"I'm sorry," you say.

"No, no, no, Bucky." Steve replies. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you alone, you weren't supposed to see that." He cradles you with his arms and you stop feeling again. "You don't understand how fucking pissed I am at those people," he says, barely audible. "You shouldn't have gone through any of _this_ , Bucky, you deserve the world and I'm just _so fucking sorry_."

 

* * *

 

After that it's like you're watching from the outside. Steve steers you to the bathtub and you take hours to undress and get in while he cleans the living room. When he comes back inside the water's gone cold and you are sitting there, exposed like a nerve and shivering. Steve encourages you to get out, handing you a pile of sportswear to change into after you towel yourself. You are slipping on the shirt when he knocks the bathroom door again. Then he cleans your wrist's injuries with wet cottons and bandages them. 

"Why did you do this to yourself?" Steve asks you in a whisper, like he's so struck he can't even speak properly.

You swallow and bite your lip. 

"Why, Bucky?" He asks again, voice seconds from choking on tears. 

He demands an answer and you whimper pathetically, _"I don't know."_

"You− you need help, Bucky." 

You withdraw involuntarily, a cold shiver running over you. "No," you whine. "Please don't, Steve, _please_."

"Bucky, you need to seek help!" Steve raises his voice and tightens his grip on you and instantly you pull your arm away from him and get up on your feet, shoulders slumped, unable to face him.

Steve looks at you like he regrets what he's done and you're shaking even before you start crying. It pains you, air getting stuck in your lungs and ugly noises escaping you through a closed throat. Your stomach clenches and you hide your face with your flesh arm and you don't know what to do. 

"Don't, Bucky," Steve grunts and tries to shuffle closer to you. "I didn't… I'm so−" 

"Leave me alone," you choke out.

Steve calls your name one more time but you don't look at him, so he exits the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

  

 

 

 

You don't speak for days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Why can't you let them take me?" You ask Steve one night when he's brushing his teeth before bed. He starts, unaware of your presence until you speak. He spits paste into the sink and turns his head to look at you, arms crossed over your chest. 

Steve wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and asks, "What?" 

"Avoiding the law would be..." You make a pause and think of skulls burst open, wounds bleeding fresh, wailing, hiding, running. "A child's game, Steve," you say. "Even then I would let them take me." Steve looks at you with a baffled expression. "Why won't you?"

"Bucky…" Steve croaks out.

"But if HYDRA finds me… Steve, they have commands, _words_. They can trigger the Soldier back. They can use me again," your voice breaks and you can only think of a red book. "If they find me I'll fall back again."

Steve is fixed where he is. Hands curled into fists, knuckles white. He looks through you like you are a ghost and his eyes are glassy and his pupils shake. "You don't belong to anyone, Bucky," he says.

His lips pull open again but you interrupt him. "Everyone would be safe if I was held back."

"HYDRA won't find you," Steve says, voice solemn and grieved. "You don't owe anything to the law." Your stomach aches when he walks to you, takes your hands with his and sits next to you on the couch. You are unable to look at him when he says, "you are safe now. I'm here for you−"

You cut him off, retrieving your hands from his grip and standing. " _Wake up, Steve._ What's the point of you trying to get me back if I'm gone for _good_. You are wasting your time with me, and you are just fooling yourself, thinking that I can be the same I was. I'm a fucking _monster_ , Steve, _let me go."_ You choke out and your chest heaves when you are done. Your ears are ringing and you repeat, like an unheard plea, "Let me go."

Steve looks up at you, brow furrowed and eyes hurt and you want to scream, scream, scream, until you lose your voice and the pain inside of you dissipates. He closes his eyes and looks down to collect himself and take a deep breath. When he looks back up his eyes are bloodshot. "You are free to go, Bucky. I… won't− I won't hold you back." Your anger subsides and you feel like someone's kicked the wind out of you. "I… I don't own you, Bucky," Steve says. "Go if that's what you want." 

You stand in front of him for a while. Your jawbone cracks as you tense it and then an awful noise escapes you, like a growl meant to hold back tears. Steve doesn't move but suddenly you are at the door, and it slams closed behind you.

 

 

 


	8. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two different kinds of going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings: Brief mention of throwing up (mild) and suicide ideation (mild).

The city's blinding lights shine above you like a blur. You can see your breath condensate in the cold air as you walk down the street, hands inside your pants pockets. The only thing keeping you together is the constant checking of the streets. You shift your eyes, never your head, watching out for people leaning on alleys. All your attention is focused on hearing if footsteps approach you. You walk and walk and you can't feel your feet anymore. You are at a big avenue, you don't know exactly where you are but it does not matter. You shuffle through the trees and raindrops start falling and soon you are soaked with the rain. You move through the avenues like you want to be found, like you are not afraid someone will find you. Washington, D. C. is almost dead anyway, just a few cars and hardly someone passing by.

You find a bench and decide to sit down, let the rain fall over you and make you feel something other than anger and numbness. And you sit there, being miserable while the sky gain a gray and weak light as it dawns. You pull your legs up, pressing them to your chest and cross your arms over your knees.

And you wait.

Wait for your death if a merciful sniper shoots you.

Wait for HYDRA to abduct you. 

Wait for PIER** to come back from the dead and slit your throat. 

Wait for the Soldier to come stand in front of you and take your place. 

Wait for a moment to kill yourself. 

"I swear I'm not following you," a familiar voice says, and you think he's lying. "Can I sit here?" He asks. 

You nod.

Frank Castle settles next to you, flopping down ungracefully. "I'm sorry," he says unapologetically. "No one gets it, Barnes."

Your gaze fixes on the bloodied bandages covering your wrist. 

"It's just…" He makes a pause and your eyes fall close. "You cross over to a side of the line," Frank continues, "You don't get to come back from that." 

You start when he moves beside you, combat boots splashing a puddle as he settles back. "I've killed people, you know?" Castle states, good-naturedly. "Not only as a marine but by my own devices as well." 

You bite your tongue.

"People think going into a battlefield makes us heroes but that's not true." Frank's raises his voice when the rain falls stronger.  "After the war I went home, I got everything back and just like that I lost it." He makes a pause, like he's cueing you to turn his head at him and you do. "I became a worse version of myself." His eyes are dark and shielded by a baseball cap. "But we're not alike, you and I." He looks over at you and tilts his head. "I chose to do this, and you… You did everything, you endured anything you had to do in order to survive and you are here right now, that only means you won the battle, Barnes. You won the war and that earns respect."

"Swallow it," you say, holding back a bark of laughter. "Save it for someone who deserves it." 

Castle shrugs, unharmed.

Frank continues after a moment of silence, "This city's like a stranger." He rubs his jaw and you can see the outline of a pistol through the fabric of his pants, stuck next to his ankle. "But the job is what I need to keep feeling like I'm alive." A shiver runs through you and you shrink on in yourself. "What do you need, Barnes?" Castle asks.

You look over at him with spite. "I don't know," you say after a moment.

Oh but you know.

You wish you could start over. Find a small place that is only yours, work in a small job to pay some food every day, go outside and get to know every corner of the city, sleep at night without much but _with enough_. Enough heat, enough shelter, just enough as you need. Earn control again. But you have no energy left for that. You are drained and waiting for something to make the first move and guide you. And it makes you sick just to think that you _need_ someone like Rumlow, like ***RC* or any of the old handlers to make you feel like you have a purpose.

"You going back?" Frank's question pulls you back to reality, nausea and trembling running over you.

"I got nowhere else to go."

"You can come to my place," Frank offers and your brow furrows. "I mean it's a shithole but it does." You look straight ahead, waiting for him to get sick and leave but he waits a moment and says, "C'mon. I'm on a break so it's either the shithole or a twenty-four hour diner, I'm starving, Barnes."

"What do you want from me?" You ask as you uncurl yourself and look at him on the eye.

"A word." Frank replies, getting up. "Marksman to marksman."

"I don't do that anymore," you say instantly.

Castle smirks, adjusting the hood of his jacket. "That shit's deep down on us." He moves his hands every time he speaks, emphasizing his words with mannerisms, unlike your statue-like active listening. "Doesn't matter if you're done with the job, it sticks around with you." He says, "'s the price you gotta pay."

Frank starts to walk away and then snarls "You coming?"

Your body feels heavier when you get on your feet and you walk on pools of water in your shoes.

 

* * *

 

 

The diner is mostly empty but you sit on one of the booths in the furthest corner and Castle lets you sit with your back to the wall, so you can have sight of the front door, the woman with wet hair in a summer dress drinking coffee and the man with thick glasses, disheveled hair and beard looking at the menu like he can't remember how to read. Soon, a waiter comes to the booth with a pot of coffee and two mugs.

"Morning, Frank," the waiter says, nodding at you after and pouring coffee in the two mugs. "Usual?"

"Yeah, Carter, thanks." 

"You?" Carter asks and you shake your head. 

You give the cup of coffee a wary look before bringing it to your lips. It's bitter and diluted and just warm. You set it aside and focus on the view to the street, reading license plates and watching the occasional pedestrian, walking unpreoccupied. The waiter sets down a plate full of food in front of Frank and refills his cup with a smile. 

"Thanks," Frank says and digs in. "You ain't gonna order anything? 's on me, Sergeant." Castle asks you through a mouthful of bacon and eggs. 

"I won't keep it down." 

"Why's that?"

You shrug. "They used to feed me through a tube."

Castle shakes his head and sips his coffee, scrunching up his nose. "I've heard breaking things helps with that," he mentions conversationally, signaling to your bandaged wrist with his unbitten sandwich. "Like snapping sticks or ripping newspapers." Castle stuffs his mouth with the whole sandwich and you hide your hands beneath the table. "Or taking cold showers," he suggests again, not seeing you and rather scanning the place for the waiter.

You shoot Frank a skeptic glance. "You tried?" You ask, raising an eyebrow. "Breaking things."

Frank chuckles. "Yeah." 

You look at the table and think of bones cracking, your own clavicle giving way like a bird bone.

 

* * *

 

When you and Frank walk outside the rain has stopped and the clouds have cleared. It's still early in the morning, but the sun has come to make its appearance and turns the sky a clear and soft pink color. You walk next to Frank back to the apartment's building and you make sure to keep your metal hand shoved in your pocket and your head down to prevent drawing attention. The streets are more populated now, mostly people going to work in suits and dresses and children heading school.  When you reach the place Frank leaves you at the entrance and you go up the stairs, hoping not to run into anyone on your way to the second floor. A wave of coldness runs down your spine before you can knock the door. What if Steve doesn't want to hear from you anymore? He's had enough of your moodiness and rudeness toward him. In the end you are just wasting his time. He knows you can't even spend a day alone because you make a mess of his apartment and of yourself. You're sure he's better off without you. Maybe he'd be happier if you'd just leave.

Your metal hand makes a tight fist and you turn on your heels but the door opens.

"Yeah, Steve, but you gotta stay put, Nat−" Sam bumps into you and his eyes go wide in a jolt. "Uh, _Bucky_ ," he says and you look at him with shame. "We were just− Uhh, come− Come on in." 

Sam lets the door fall open and waits, eyeing you up and down discreetly while you contemplate turning your back on him and leaving. He waits and does nothing but smile until you've stepped inside. There's a punch-hole in the living room wall when you walk in. Steve bolts to his feet when he sees you and you flinch, hunching in on yourself and looking away. 

"Bucky!" Steve calls out and approaches you carefully. "Buck, I'm so sorry, okay? I never wanted you to go away," he mumbles. "I just," he continues after visibly forcing himself to stay calm. "I just want you to be safe and if you really want to go, that's fine, but−"

You shake your head and he stops talking, relief dawning on his face. "I don't… want to," you say raggedly. "I'm sorry."

Steve looks at you, like you're pressing your fingers against an injury of his. "Buck…" 

"I just," you cut him off again. "I don't want to be a burden." 

"You are not, Bucky," Steve says firmly. "This is your home, Buck, and you are my friend," his hand twitches like he wants to reach out for you but he's holding back. "We'll figure this out together."

"Okay," you say and look down. The carpet is absorbing the water your shoes and clothes are leaking and you wince. "Was it me?" You ask, looking up and pointing at the hole in the wall.

Steve shrinks back before saying, "No, it was me." 

Sam looks over at you cautiously.

"I− I'm sorry," you murmur because you made Steve mad and he punched a wall, instead of punching you. 

"No, Bucky," Steve rushes. "I was frustrated," he starts and you hold his gaze fearfully. "I was angry, not because you left but because I couldn't say what I wanted to." 

"What did you want to say to Bucky, Steve?" Sam asks with a kind and low voice after a moment of silence.

"I..." Steve starts, unsure. "You are my friend, Bucky, and I care about you and I know I made you upset but all I want is for you to feel better. Now I know I didn't approach you the way I should've, because I didn't let you speak your mind when this obviously concerns you" Steve makes a pause to take a deep breath. "The thing is, I'm real worried about you, that's why I brought up the therapy thing but I understand that it is your final decision so I should listen to it and respect it, because you are not alone, in the end, Bucky, you have me and Sam and Natasha and we're here for you no matter what."

You nod your head when he's finished. You think you say 'thank you' but the word doesn't make a sound.

"Listen… About− the injuries you did on yourself," Steve continues. "We could find a better way to manage what you're feeling." 

"How about…" Sam cuts Steve off gently, making him step back, "You step into the shower, Bucky?" You look down at yourself, the soaked fabric of your pants sticking to your thighs.

"Yeah..." Steve says, sullen. "Sam and I will have breakfast ready when you come out."

"We'll have a talk after, alright?" Sam says, stepping back so it doesn't look like you're being confronted.

"Yes," you duck your head and turn to your room.

"Uh, what do you want for breakfast, Bucky?" Steve asks.

 "Coffee," you reply.

 

* * *

 

 

"Steve and I are worried about you, Bucky," Sam is saying. You're still at the dining table. There are dirty dishes on it but the plate with scrambled eggs Steve cooked for you is untouched. "I understand that self-harming might give you a sense of control and relief, but there are other coping mechanisms that will make you feel the same way."

"What is it, Buck?" Steve cuts in. "That... you seek in self harming?"

You sit in silence, scanning the room with your eyes to avoid looking at them. 

"It could be the sense of pain that helps," Sam suggests, seriously but not unkind. "Or the way you stop feeling angry… Or it could be the fact of seeing blood." 

You shake your head and the abrupt movement surprises them. "It's never the blood."

"The pain then?" Steve incites, swallowing hard.

"Yes," you say miserably.

"We can find alternatives to that," Sam explains. "Something different that creates a sharp physical sensation that doesn't harm you, like holding ice and squeezing it, or snapping your wrist with a rubber band."

Steve raises an eyebrow at Sam, but your eyes look at him with renewed interest.

"There are other sensations that can make up for pain," Sam continues. "You can massage the parts of your body where you want to hurt yourself, or you can try writing or painting on yourself. A word that you like, your name, or an object that reminds you of comfort."

"You could write this down on your notebook," Steve suggests gently.

Sam nods along, giving his approval. After a pause he says, "Even the act of breathing consciously can help. Noticing the way your chest and stomach move with each breath."

You purse your lips and silence stretches between the three of you.

"Are you going to try this, Bucky?" Steve asks his tone as sincere as his worry. "When you are feeling like you want to harm yourself?"

"I'll do it."

You hate the way it sounds like you're accepting a new target.

 

* * *

   

"I want to look like him." You tell Steve one afternoon. You're holding the scissors you found in your room after checking every corner of it. You still duck from Steve's gaze but you can't help it. 

Steve looks up from his phone and offers you a smile, the most genuine he's had on his face in a lot. "Who?" 

"Like him," You say simply, and Steve's expression drops. "At the museum, Sergeant Barnes. The display…"

Steve gets up from his seat at the table. He approaches you, like he wants to place a hand on your shoulder. You step back and he stops immediately. "Buck, you are already _him_."

You look down, ashamed. You shift your weight in your feet and mutter, "I want to look− like him." 

He extends one hand hesitantly, you hand him the scissors. You feel at loss, without the scissors _in your_ possession and you have to remind yourself who you are giving up your weapons to. You wish you could trust Steve naturally, but you still have to force yourself to do it.

"Alright, Bucky." 

Steve notices how anxious you are sitting in such a vulnerable state, so he talks and talks about anything that comes to his mind, changing subjects drastically when you don't reply to anything. Finally he steps away from you and you lift your eyes.

"All done," he announces proudly. "'s not bad, I promise. Go check it out on the mirror." 

You hesitate to get up on your feet but you don't look back at Steve when you do so, closing the bathroom door behind you, shutting him out of this. You run your flesh hand through your hair to test its length, it feels foreign and you try to convince yourself _this is right, this is the way it's meant to be._ Your reflection looks back at you. The hair is longer than Bucky's-- y _our_ photos at the Smithsonian, but it does resemble your old self. However, your eyes are not the same. Not your cold and distant eyes and not your face, a cheap imitation of the Sergeant's face. You look at the mirror and the Soldier looks back at you, cold and dead eyes blazed with rage. Your jaw tightens at this realization, you close the gap of stupefaction between your lips and bite the inside of your cheek until you taste iron. 

You shave without Steve's permission to use his razor and it claws like a hungry animal inside your ribcage. _Steve is not your handler, he's your friend_ , you repeat until the words have no meaning anymore. When you come out of the bathroom Steve gives you the earnest smile. He still sees his old friend in you and you wonder how can he ignore all the places in your body where you don't match Bucky Barnes. 

 

* * *

 

"Look at you all handsome," Oktober tells you the next day. There are dark circles under her eyes and her smile is sincere. She is wearing ripped jeans and a yellow shirt, but you are lost seeing the narrow slivers of her milky skin on her thighs. 

Her statement makes you uncomfortable. _No,_ you want to tell her. You don't want her to point you out, not your appearance because it doesn't make any sense to you. When you look in the mirror and someone else stares back at you _. No,_ you want to say but instead you croak, "Oktob− _Natasha."_  

"It's okay," she replies. "You can call me Oktober." She makes a pause and the corners of her lips rise. _"Yasha,"_ she says and you wince.

_NO_

_No,_ you want to say but you can't. It's not a word you are allowed to pronounce. Still, you want to let her know is not okay so you try with, "Steve doesn't like it."

"It's not about what Steve likes or doesn't," she states, matter-of-factly. "This is about you." You fall into silence, like you usually do when you don't know what to answer. Natasha prods anyway and asks, "What do you want to call me?"

She waits but you can only look down at your hands, helplessly. "I'm sorry," you mutter through gritted teeth. 

Natasha shakes her head with a soft smile on her face. "I mean it, you can call me Oktober." She lowers her head until she finds your eyes and you hurt inside. "So which one do you prefer? James? Bucky?" She asks and you're glad Yasha is out of the question.

You swallow tears and look up at her, unwilling to believe that you don't even need anyone to humiliate you, you'll find a way to do that yourself. "Bucky," you say weakly.

  

* * *

 

They give you green Jell-O one of the days you refuse to eat and even if it is just water you throw it up anyway.

"What's wrong, Bucky?" Steve asks, crouching next to you on the cold tiled floor. 

You spit in the toilet and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. "Nothing I just... I don't like the taste," you reply.

Steve almost smiles at you.

"What?"

That's when his smile widens completely.

"It's good to hear." You look up at him unamused. Steve chuckles despite your lack of reaction. "I'm serious, it's good progress, you finding out what you like and what you don't, I don't know."

Steve gladly tells Sam and Natasha about your episode with the Jell-O, which makes them laugh with discretion. You attempt to smile with them but it pulls your face in an odd manner, you don't think you'll ever get used to it.

"Maybe you could write down a list," Steve remarks later that day as he turns the TV off. "In your notebook."

"A list?" You ask.

"Y'know, with the things that you like and the things you don't." He gets up. TV off means turning in for the night. "It could help you with expressing what you feel and what you need. Your words are getting better, right?"

"I think." The words give you a hard time, one of the collateral damages of being, well. Brain damaged. Language gives you trouble the same way you cry until you fall asleep most days, only to wake up wailing and sobbing. The problem is, you don't know where it stops being an organic injury and where it starts being a mental one. _The brain can get sick, too._ Steve told you once, when you started being more responsive, but there are things you still don't know how to address and it makes you sick.

"See? You should give it a try."

Sometimes you flip the pages of your notebook and find a violent scrawl that you don't remember making.

Чистка 

не помнить  не помнить         не помнить

 

         дней прошло

я не хочу его больше

 

 

Помогите

Помогите

 

Помогите 

Помогите

Помогите

 

All in red.

You flip the page and write in blue, you try to focus on your life now, not of what's over, _over_.

 

I Like                                                                                        I do Not like 

 

Your attention fixes on the do Not like section so you start to write and try not to flinch or remember too much and let it spiral down from there.

I Like                                                                                       I do Not like

                                                                                                  the pain 

                                                                                                hands        

                                                                                                 helpless

                                                                                             voltage

                                                                           

                                                                                              gash probe pierce  incise

 

                                                                                                      the chair

 

The _I Like_ column is way harder to decipher. It takes all you've got to find something appropriate to write down there.

 

I Like                                                                                          I do Not like

cartoons on the TV                                                                     the pain 

Sun    
carpeted floors                                                                                  hands        

                                                                                                          helpless

                                                                                                     voltage

                                                                           

                                                                                                 gash probe pierce  incise

 

                                                                                                the chair

 

Steve likes when you call Oktober _Natasha_ , so you write: calling her real name on the _I Like_ column. Then you think, Steve also likes when you reply to questions, when you speak in long sentences, when you pick your own breakfast.

I Like                                                                                        I do Not like

cartoons on the TV                                                                      the pain 

Sun    
carpeted floors                                                                          hands        

 calling her real name                                                                      helpless

 replying                                                                                              voltage

  speaking                                                               

 using more words                                                                         gash probe pierce  incise  

 choosing tea or coffee

cereal or oatmeal                                                                                   the chair

 

Suddenly the list becomes a Steve's likes me to or not to list, which even you know isn't right. But you are so used to have a handler to rule over you that you have disappeared completely, wiped off. It doesn't matter what the puppet wants because it's not going to get it, it doesn't concern anybody what it feels because _it doesn't._

A flood of rage shivers through your body and you can't stand to do this anymore, you want to rip the pages off your notebook and shred them to pieces and shred the whole notebook to pieces because none of this makes sense. You close the notebook and clutch it with both hands, it takes you all your willpower to not break it in half and instead you throw it across the room. The loud thump of it hitting against the wall gives you the cue to exhale and strike your real elbow to the wall so hard that it makes your whole arm hurt deeply and then go numb. 

Your vision is blurry and your brain hammers against your skull.

"Bucky?" Steve calls from outside your room. "Is everything okay?"

You couldn't possible gather the energy to speak so you let him knock and call out your name until he apologizes for entering the room, letting his breath out when he sees you sitting in the bed. 

"What happened, Bucky?" He asks with a tender voice.

You shake your head and refuse to look back at him, turning to the wall.

"Talk to me," he says. "Please." Both of you stay fixed in your positions. Steve waits for an answer and gives up several minutes later. "You want to be alone, then. That's fine," he says like he really means it. "I'll be outside if you need anything."

Steve exits your room and closes the door behind him. By this moment the anger has died out completely, and you are back at being a ragdoll, muscles and joints limp. You lift your gaze and seeing the notebook Sam gave to you makes your stomach clench in guilt. You climb out of bed and cross the room to lift it. Damaged but still your notebook. Is that how Steve feels about you.  

You write one last thing at the bottom of the page. 

I Like                                                                                             I do Not like

cartoons on the TV                                                                       the pain 

Sun    
carpeted floors                                                                                   hands        

 calling her real name                                                                             helpless

 replying                                                                                                    voltage

  speaking                                                               

 using more words                                                                              gash probe pierce  incise  

 choosing tea or coffee

cereal or oatmeal                                                                                  the chair

                                                                                                    

_green jell-o_

 

 

Oktober− _Natasha_ , Natasha, comes over almost every day. Today she is wearing a black bodysuit. It's tight to her torso and crossed in a way that allows you to see the epigastric region of her abdomen. Both of you sit on the dining room and she hands you a book.

"Russian poetry," she explains as she flips the hardcover of the book in your hands. "It kept me busy for a while."

"Busy from what?" You ask. 

"My mind," she replies with an easy grin.

You wait until it gives you trouble, your mind, to open the book. When you are locked in your room and sitting with your legs curled beneath you, pearls of cold sweat pooling on your temples. It falls open in your hands in a random page, it reads: 

_I keep in mind that magic moment:_

_When you appeared before my eyes_

_Like ghost, like fleeting apparition,_

_Like genius of the purest grace._

You stop. 

You remember this. You picture your brain in the screen of a big machine, grey and dysfunctional. But a small region of it lights up, yellow and green and it's a memory. 

A handful of memories. 

You close the book and recite with that hoarse voice of yours, "I keep in mind that magic moment, when you appeared before my eyes, like," you hesitate. "Ghost. Like fleeting apparition, like genius of-- Purest. Grace." Your chest heaves slowly, the air you breathe makes you feel new. "In torturous hopeless melancholy, in vanity and noisy fuss, I've always heard your tender voice," you close your eyes and the face that you see there, in your darkness, is smiling sincerely at you, a pair of baby blue eyes. He calls your name again, he prays your name and cherishes it and you know it was true, everything was true. You died because of him but found your way back to him. Even now, even here. Even when you had to sacrifice your body, and your mind is not the same and you are being haunted constantly but you made it back. You are home. 

"Years passed away, and blasts of tempests and monsters and gods have scattered all my previous dreams, and I forgot your tender voice and holy you are in my head." No. It's not… You start over. "Я помню чудное мгновенье, передо мной явилась ты, как мимолетное виденье, как гений чистой красоты..."

 

* * *

 

 

"Steve? Can I ask you something?" You mutter one morning, Steve is coming in to the apartment after one of his morning runs. He's winded up and sweat makes his skin glimmer and shine, you wonder what distance he ran to make his super soldier body wreck like this.

He smiles immediately at your sudden interest in speaking. "Sure, what is it?" You get up from the floor and abandon the alphabet puzzles in one of the coloring books Sam got you. _Given only one of each letter in the alphabet, what are_ _the smallest and largest numbers that you could write down?_ You know that Steve gets happy when he comes back to the apartment and finds you out of your room, doing any of the activities that you've picked up to get your mind on something that is not the voices in your head. Even if it's just for a while. 

You follow Steve to the bathroom, where he picks up a towel to dry his face and you linger on the doorway. "What was it like? We… How were we like?" 

Steve huffs out a chuckle. "We, ah. You were−" He hesitates there. You see the regret and pain in his eyes through the mirror and you raise an eyebrow at him. You were. You changed. You will never get back to that. "Adventurous," he continues, ignoring his concern for your sake and allowing a small smile gain its way back on his lips. "Lighthearted, kind and devoted." He makes a pause. "Sarcastic, but in a charming kind of way." 

You wish you could go back to your room and write those words on your notebook. Instead you stand there in silence, repeating the words in your head.

"I'd be worried all the time," Steve continues, trying to search your eyes. "We always had trouble paying rent and decent meals." You finally look up at him. "But you always told me _'it's gonna be fine, Steve, we'll get out of this one like we always do, you worry too much'_. You always had at least two part time jobs, you'd take anything you could. And I was the paperboy for months, tried selling some of my drawings, but the pay wasn't much." Steve's gaze falls on the tiled floor, like he can't stand looking at you anymore. After a moment he continues, "I'd get sick all the time, you know. If it wasn't the flu, it'd be the ulcers in my stomach or my blood pressure. But, somehow, you always found a way to buy the medicines I needed." His face gets its light back when he lets out a small laugh, "You'd come back to our apartment not only with more than five glass-bottles of medicine, but also with Butterfingers and Milk Duds from the drugstore."

Your expression must soften because Steve looks back at you and gives you one of those smiles you recall from the images that pop in your mind.

"Do you remember any of it?" Steve asks you. 

"Sometimes." You reply simply but Steve keeps looking at you like you are not finished, so you try. "I see your face, mostly." Steve grimaces and you look away. "Or hear your voice, it's…" The language still not provides. "It's always there."

You know Steve is happy, even when his demeanor looks sad more than anything, but he's happy when he gets his Bucky back, even if it's just for a couple of minutes. You think of time passing, all that has been made of you in all those years. While Steve slept in ice you were molded into something else, something you hate being, but you can't find your way to become your old self again. But you think, if you have stolen so many things, so many lives, then maybe you can steal the one that belonged to you. You can steal the Bucky Barnes that belongs to Steve Rogers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Чистка: chistka; Purge.  
> не помнить: ne pomnit´; do not remember  
> дней прошло: dney proshlo; days gone by  
> но боль остается: no bol´ostayetsya; but the pain remains  
> я не хочу его больше: ya ne khochu yego bol´she; I don't want it anymore  
> Помогите: pomogite; help


	9. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Matt Fraction and David Aja's _Hawkeye._

Your eyes snap open and his name tears your throat apart.

Your face is warm and wet, your heart hammers inside and you feel so worn out. Your head jerks back and a howl scrapes its way out through your larynx. You hold onto what you can and you let the sobs shake through you, every breath you inhale becomes an outcry like no other you've let out in your life. You are scared of dying and falling and hurting, you are convinced you are still trapped in that cage but Steve is holding your flesh hand. Steve is here now, here again like it's meant to be. He's here and there's no way anything can take him away from you. Not his illness, not the debts, not the war and not the monsters. 

 _"Bucky, listen to my voice. You are okay, you are safe, I promise you are safe now."_  

 

* * *

 

 

Lately you remember too much. 

Since you asked Steve about your past your mind has become a constant turmoil of memories. Tide out, tide in. It's not easy to get by, all those sounds and feelings and images like glimpses of a home video. It's overwhelming. Some days you don't get out of bed, don't eat, don't talk to anyone, you just lie and shift between vigil and unconsciousness for hours. Other days you need to ask Steve about something that you remember, just to know if it actually happened. 

"You were on the church choir," you ask, that inquisitive gaze of yours is becoming dear to Steve. 

He smiles, his eyes sparkle. "A few times. And you were there, too." The irony almost makes you burst into laughter. "The nuns liked you, you know? They'd ruffle your hair and pat your cheek as you passed by, you hated it."  

"Mother Superior."

"Yeah, Mother Superior esteemed you a whole lot." You distort your lips in a futile attempt to smile. "One time in particular, after the Sunday Mass was over, you and I stayed sitting on the benches. Waiting for everybody to leave. We knelt and put our hands together when the nuns passed by so they'd keep us on that concept. But we were chatting in whispers and holding back our laughter so it wouldn't echo in the temple walls. Once we were alone we went to the altar and took the sacramental wine. It was the first time I ever tried alcohol, and well-- I had to confess after that, you were so mad at me."

Most of the times you talk about the past it's painful. You don't remember living that, being there. Steve tells you these stories and they circle around in your head and get nowhere. It's fairytales and you are the scared, lost kid listening to them, imagining to be the prince. 

 

* * *

 

After that you find yourself reaching out for Steve. At first it's just an impulse, like being around him all day and remembering all those experiences you had together gives your brain the muscle memory to reach a hand and try to touch him. You never get to reach him, stopping the moment you realize what you are doing, as if there were delicate flowers beneath Steve's skin and your touch could do nothing but kill them. You are corrupt. Tainted and impure. You shouldn't be allowed to be near Steve anyway.

Steve catches you mid-action _every time,_ and while he doesn't ask you what you are doing or urge you to continue he does stop in his tracks, like you are a scared animal and he's afraid to drive you away. 

 

* * *

 

 

"Spaghetti is famous for the way it all gets tangled up on the plate," Sam is reading the book with puzzles with Natasha and you after dinner. You are solving it all together. He continues, "those of you who think they know their alphabet are bound to get all tangled up with this puzzle too, unless you read it and think about it very carefully." 

You remember reading the introduction of the puzzles for the first time, challenging your wit, and you thought you wouldn't be able to solve any of them, brain too fucked up. But then Steve sat with you and read you through the first ones and then waited until you muttered the answer. "What letter of the alphabet is the one which comes eight letters before the letter which comes five letters after the fourth appearance of the first letter to occur four times in this sentence− okay what?" 

"Let me get a look at that," Natasha says, taking your book from Sam's hands. "The first letter to appear four times is T, now five letters after this T and then eight letters before that is…"

"R," you guess, craning your neck to get a better view of the puzzle.

 "Correct." Natasha smiles and hands you the pen and book for you to write the answer down.  

You press the pen to the paper but her phone catches your attention as its screen lights up in the pocket of her hoodie. 

"Steven, get the door will you? Clint's here." 

"Sure," Steve replies.

They asked you this morning if it was alright to have one of their friends over. Former SHIELD agent, an avenger. You don't mind the company but you're confused as to why they want him to be near you. You suppose it's because Steve is worried of your interaction with other people. Sure you can handle the three of them, but then again you don't speak much and they don't usually push. You are aware that Steve wants you to leave the apartment one of these days and face the normal life he wants you to have. But you know it is never going to be possible. You're an assassin ( _ex-assassin,_ you remind yourself) who is too scared by thunder storms and going outside and you're too _fucked up for−_

The trail of thoughts is broken by the sound of the door opening, Steve greeting cheerfully and the sound of heaving. 

You look up immediately and find a man with a broken nose, clutching a leash. "Hey there," he says, waving a bandaged hand. "I'm Clint, this is Lucky, a.k.a. Pizza dog."

He's talking to you but you're too busy staring at the dog, thumping his tail against the door's frame.

"Come in, Clint, make yourself at home," Steve tells him and shuts the door behind them. 

"Hey, man." Sam calls.

"Hey," Clint takes a seat next to you and unclips the leash from Lucky's collar. "Do you mind?" He asks you. "He likes pets and the whole deal, that alright with ya?" 

You nod your head, diverting his gaze. 

"Say hello, Lucky." The dog comes trotting outright in your direction, wagging his tail and leaning into your touch. "He is a mutt. Half amazing, half terrific."

Sam laughs. Air gets stuck in your airway and Lucky looks up at you with bright golden eyes.

"You look like hell," Natasha acknowledges.

"Thanks, Tasha." Clint replies.

"Still struggling with the _tracksuit mafia_?" she asks.

Clint chuckles. "Nah. The people from the building did a good job containing the _draculas_ until the police showed. This," he says as he waves his hands around himself, "is thanks to that son-of-a-bitch-clown." 

Steve gives him an apprehensive look and sits on your right. "I'm sorry to hear about this just now, Clint." Steve pets Lucky's back, but Lucky keeps his chin on your thigh. "We could've helped." 

Silence spreads and you glance up. Clint's eyes are spent like yours on the mirror. Although his eyebrows fall like sadness and yours are high in anticipation. Your gaze is emptier. 

Clint shrugs. "Yeah, well," he says finally. "I wanted to play with the big boys." 

 

* * *

 

 

An hour later the table is covered in different dishes and flowers in the centerpiece. You eat from Sam's cornbread casserole, serving yourself a small portion, trying not to catch any attention when your stomach still feels empty and you add more food into your plate. When dinner is over Steve encourages you to play a card game named _Uno_ , which all of you end up playing for a long time until it gets dark. Then you help wash the dishes and bring the kitchen back to order. When you are done, Steve suggests watching some TV, so you are sitting on the couch with Lucky on your lap, watching a documentary on the migration patterns of penguins in the South Pole.

Sam lets you sit on the individual couch, knowing that you can't relax when being too close to another person. Clint is on the couch next to you, arms folded over his chest. When the penguin's eggs are hatching, Steve looks over to check on you and you try to refocus on the screen instead of seeing _past it. You know it worries him when you look checked out._  

The documentary ends and Steve and Sam are both asleep, positioned uncomfortably but not minding at all. Natasha and Clint exchange glances before bursting into a muffled laughter.

"I'm gonna get my jacket," Natasha says, slowly rising to her feet. "You guys keep it down, the geriatrics are snoring."

Clint lifts a casted, broken thumb at her as she retreats to Steve's room.

"He a good fella, ain't he?" Clint tells you, signaling to Lucky. "He wasn't mine, actually. He was with the mafia, I mean not _him_ , but he was their dog," Clint makes a pause. "He attacked one of the men from the mafia who was shooting at me." He adjusts his hearing aid and sits up straight. "After that they beat him and threw him into the traffic." 

Your brow furrows and you meet his gaze. "I'm sorry," you say reflexively.

Clint makes a face. "My buddy here almost doesn't make it through the surgeries, he lost sight in his left eye, but he made it."

Silence stretches between the two of you and you hear Natasha zipping her leather jacket. 

"Thing is," Clint continues. "I'm not going to be around for a while, y'know? I just took a flight here and am leaving tomorrow to New Mexico to handle an issue and Lucky has no place to stay, so I was thinking maybe you and good ol' Steve could take care of him?" 

You don't know how to react to that and a few seconds have to pass for you to say, "Really?"

As in _Really? You trust me to do this?_

"Yeah, man," Clint says. "I assure you Lucky's the sweetest pupper out there." Lucky lifts his ears at the mention of his name and his tail wags slowly. "So… No pressure, man, just think about it."

"Steve's the one who…" You begin but stop yourself before you can say ' _lives here'_.

"Yeah, no, talk to him about it, it's cool." 

 

* * *

 

 

Sam, Natasha and Clint leave later that night, but you and Steve are left with Lucky and his bag of supplies. That night Steve and you feed Lucky one too many treats and Steve lets him sleep on the foot of your bed. The following morning Lucky is digging his nose into his bag and the noise wakes you up, that's when you realize that you slept all way through the night and no nightmares disturbed you from the first time in a long, long time. Your eyes are heavy but you force yourself to stand up and follow Lucky to the living room.

Steve emerges form his own bedroom, his hair disheveled and a hand rubbing his face, "What's the matter? Does he want a walk?"

Lucky wags his tail in excitement and takes out his leash from the bag, nudging your metal hand with his nose. "I think so," you mutter. 

Steve changes into training pants and you put your sneakers on. You don't need to change because you sleep in the comfortable sportswear Steve got you. 

You hold Lucky's leash with your flesh hand and he walks on your right, between you and Steve. 

"There was this bakery," Steve comments, a flow of glee in his voice, "Back in Brooklyn? _Finley's Bakery._ Do y' remember?"

"Finley?" you ask.

"He was _way_ too kind to us," Steve explains. "One Christmas he was giving away chocolate muffins to his costumers. We passed by to wish him a merry Christmas but didn't buy anything and he bagged a bunch of cookies and muffins for us anyway."

"Sounds like a nice guy," you say, afraid of disappointing Steve for not remembering it.

"He was," Steve agrees, smiling softly.

Steve continues talking but as you step into a more crowded street you see the people passing by, talking on their phones and listening to music. Even then, they flicker their gazes to you, you can feel them staring, you can feel their eyes like daggers piercing to your core. You look down at your body like it's a foreign thing, like it's been everyone's temple but yours. Hosts that have come to stay inside, that have found something to praise in it. Your body is used and burned-out and these people _see_ that. They're watching you with scrutiny, and your metal hand is shoved in your jacket's pocket but they must see that your left side isn't made of flesh and bone, you're made of _wires_ and unreal parts and your face is cheap, clichéd−

You're performing a _Grand Pirouette_ and the blinding stage lights daze you with each turn _en dehors_ you do. Your ears feel like they're stuffed with cotton and slowly the music dies out, leaving you with the erratic thumps of your blood-pumping and everyone's staring at you, _twenty thousand sets of eyes, all looking through you._ Your movements are fluid like a rush of blood leaving a deep wound, not a muscle out of place, you're perfect. You are programmed to tear yourself apart to please and amuse. The demon's voices speak in hisses, right into your ears and their breaths tickle your naked skin, _'you already died, baby doll.'_

_'You can't wake up!'_

_'Every time I open you up I see nothing but a hollow cavity'_  

 _'It's not there'_  

 _'You reek of mediocrity!'_  

_'Again, again, again'_

When you land on the balls of your feet your ankles scream and the roar of the audience applause reaches all of you. The sound rattles within you and the strings that hold you shift your position, doubling you over with an elegant and distorted bow.  

"−ky?" 

 

"That's good, come back to me," Steve is saying. "Like this, Bucky, mimic my breathing." 

A stream of frigid air travels its way to your lungs and your head spins when you realize you're sitting down on the edge of the sidewalk and not on your feet. Your brain presses against your skull painfully and your breathing is heavy. Lucky's head is resting on your flesh hand, limped on the floor. Steve's hand brushes against your knee, accidentally, you think, but you can't help yourself but flinch away from the touch. 

"Hey− it's okay," Steve says. "Tell me what you need, Buck." 

You lower your eyes on the pavement, still wet from last night's raining. "C−Can we go… b− back?" You ask, dazedly. 

"Yeah, Bucky," Steve breathes, his face looks pale and exhausted. "We can go back." 

When you arrive home you walk straight to the couch and curl up on it, fitting your limbs in the crooks left between yourself and the cushions. Lucky is happy to join you, finding a spot by your feet and padding the couch before plopping down pleasantly. Steve, on the other hand, stays by the front door, hand gripping the knob and staring at you with an anguished expression.

"Please don't do it," you say, fixing Steve with glaring irritation.

"Do what?" Steve asks you, jerking his head and speaking in all seriousness, not tiptoeing like he usually does.

"Ask me to see a doctor," you clarify, hating the bite in your words. 

Steve exhales, sick of the shit you make him put up with. "They're not doctors like the… white-coated ones," he explains, once the annoyance has left him. "They wouldn't push you to do anything you aren't ready for." 

"I'm never going to be ready for _anything else_ , Steve," you retort, just now recognizing the softness of Steve's name on your lips, and realizing you only say it when you're trying to avoid a requests of his. 

"Don't say that," Steve acknowledges and your nose scrunches up and your mouth twists like you are about to bare your teeth. "These episodes have me really worried about your health, Bucky, I…" He makes a pause to run a hand through his hair, like he's holding back his words. "I just want you to be happy again," he says quietly. 

You shake your head to yourself and your expression is a mirror of the grim face of the Soldier. "Too fucking bad, Steve," you spit the words out, malice taking over your voice, "This isn't a goddamn _fairytale._ " 

Your eyes close and the crook of your flesh arm covers your face. You remember crying this silently before, your face is made a mess and your airways are about to burst but not a noise escapes you. All the sadness and venom that leaks out of your eyes remains _yours_ , no one can make fun of it or own it to themselves, like it's a treasurable thing. The pain that has made a home in you stays with you for once.

Steve stays very quiet too.

There's no noise aside from the ringing in your ears. 

  

* * *

 

 

There's salt on your lips when you wake up. The sun is setting outside, casting beautiful orange patterns on the apartment's walls. Lucky whines and licks your flesh hand. You can hear delicate steps on the floor, and dishes clacking against each other. A sweet and hot smell floods your senses, and you move your arm out of your eyes to find Steve placing a plate with saucy pasta on the coffee table. You look at him, clueless. 

"Hey…" Steve says softly. "I made you something, it's kinda late so I thought you might be hungry." 

"Th− Thanks." 

Steve nods and walks to the kitchen, only to come back to sit on the armchair, holding a plate of his own.

You eat in engulfing silence and every moment you don't say _I'm sorry_ and every bite of food you take feels like a non-earned reward.

  

* * *

 

 

"Okay," you croak out that night while you're lying on the living room, after Steve and you have taken Lucky to the building's parking lot and played fetch with for hours. 

"Hm?" Steve asks, distracted by the preparation of monkfish curry on the television. 

"I'll see the doctor," you explain. You have been petting Lucky's head for a while now, but you're too conscious of Steve's pets so you don't brush his skin on accident. 

Steve stops his hand and his head whips to you, eyes faithful and wide. "Bucky…"

"When I'm ready," you cut him off, before he can get his hopes up, but you hate to see half of the light leave his eyes. "I can't… Not now," you say apologetically. "I'll do it, when… I feel like I could handle it."

"You would, Bucky," Steve says, a smile gaining its way back up there. "I know it." 

You look down, looking earnestly at the carpet because you can't stand Steve's expression.

You couldn't stand to disappoint him. 

  

* * *

 

 

Clint comes back to the apartment when it's Friday and the week has ended. This time his hearing aid is purple and his hair is clean. 

"Was he good?" He asks you and Steve, bending down to embrace Lucky. "Were you good?" He asks him instead. 

"We'll miss him," Steve admits as you hand Clint Lucky's leash. 

"Thanks for watching over him, I owe you big time."

"Anytime, Clint," Steve says. 

Before they leave, Clint shuffles closer to you, bringing one bandaged hand to his mouth like he's telling you a secret. "You know? There's this shelter nearby? Lots of rescued dogs and cats, maybe you can go and take a look, make a donation, meet the tail-waggers. Just saying."  

 

* * *

 

 

There are two knocks on your bedroom's door. 

"Come in," you reply. 

Sam peeks his head inside. "Hey, man," he greets you. 

"Hey," you lift your gaze momentarily before fixing it back to your tablet. 

"Brought you some candy bars," Sam says. _"Ghirardelli_ and… _Twizzlers_ , I'm covering everything, can I sit here?"

"Sure," you say and he plops down on the other side of your bed. 

"Here," you look up and accept the candy. One is wrapped in a bright red cellophane while the other is packed in a triangular box. 

"Thank you."

"No problem, hey− Did you get the email with my grandmas' shrimp gumbo recipe?" Sam asks, an easy grin playing on his lips. 

"Yeah, thanks," you say. "Steve says he'd love to try it later." 

"Good, good," Sam's contentment is audible in his voice. "What you got there?" 

"A book," you say, focusing on the picture of the plush rabbit meeting the Real rabbits, his posture is stiff compared to the Real animals. You remember feeling distressed in this scene, where the Real bunnies criticize the rabbit for not having hind legs and not being able to jump. _"The Velveteen Rabbit."_

"What is it about?" Sam asks, but you suspect he already knows. 

After a long pause of considering and gathering thoughts you say, "A stuffed animal. He's loved so much he becomes real." You let go of the tablet and leave it on the bed. "By the time it happens most of his fur's been loved off, he's lost his whiskers and his shape," you continue, even though you wish you could stop because this sounds stupid even in your own ears. "He thinks he'll never be happy again. He doesn't know that after everything bad that's happened, he could still be…" You look away and speak with a tiny voice, shamefully, "blessed." 

You can see Sam with your peripheral vision, eyes hung on you and body turned towards you.

"I hope that can happen for me, that's… what I want," your voice sounds ragged and fearful, like a child's. "To be loved enough to become real." 

"There's nothing wrong with feeling like you're not real," Sam says with ever so calming tone. "But I can assure you, Bucky, you _are_ very real. You exist not because you are loved, but because you are a human being, with emotions and thoughts that are valuable and treasured. We hear you, we see you and you're here, you're every bit as good as any of us." 

"Then what's wrong with me?" You shout and your voice reaches a pitch you hadn't ever heard. "What the _fuck_ is going on inside _my head?"_ Sam's expression changes to something awfully neutral. You think he's going to say something but before his mouth opens you're already asking for forgiveness. You mutter, " _Sorry"._ You feel sick of guilt and ache. "I just… I want to be _real,"_ the words leave you in tears and you turn your back on Sam, all the anger gone and being replaced by shame.

You have to be real so that the Soldier isn't. 

"You are real, Bucky, believe me," Sam says. "It might not feel like that right now, but a moment will come when you will believe it yourself."

 

* * *

 

 

That night, alone in your room, lights out, you can't so much as _blink_ because you are convinced the Soldier is laying down on the floor, next to your bed. The only way you think of scaring it away is ridiculous but you try it anyway. You reach out to the nightstand and grab the candy. You destroy the packaging and bite into one of the red ones, and entertain yourself on how it makes your teeth hurt.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve left two hours ago. Natasha must be working in her place, which you don't know the location of, and Sam is probably spending time with his family at Petworth. You don't particularly enjoy being alone for too long but you try your best to overcome the anxiety and try to breathe the way Sam has instructed you to when you are having trouble. You have his number and Steve's and Natasha's scribbled down and attached to the refrigerator with magnets but you don't want to call because you can't handle yourself for a while. You are trying your best to not become a burden.

A migraine is pounding in your head so you turn off all the lights in the apartment, making the drilling pain a bit more bearable. Raindrops start pattering against the windows, like nails tapping the glass insistently, open up, open up. Your metal hand is on the light switch and you are fixed staring out of the window, where a torrent of water dances in the air.

A streak of hot silver splits the sky, filling the room with a brilliant white color. You flinch, shutting your eyes tightly and letting your muscles clench, bracing yourself for thunder, for the strike you'll receive, for the pain of flesh hitting bone, hitting flesh. 

The uproar of thunder sounds like a barrage, the crash of a bullet continuously breaking the sound barrier, the echo reflecting off the walls. Another crack of lightning, flashing before your eyes before you can close them again. Blood splatters your face when you pull the trigger, a result of shooting at close and point-blank rage. Your head swims with pain and bile churns in your stomach. When your eyes snap open it's only because you want to find a place to be safe. Safe from the rising growls of the sky and safe from the visions in your mind, but when the room lights up once again you spot a figure in the corner of the kitchen. Your eyes widen when the Soldier appears as real as your own flesh, mouth dripping blood like it's just bitten an artery. Your heartbeat thumps in the pulse point of your neck as you step back cautiously, never turning your back from the Soldier hiding in the dark. The crash of thunder makes your breath catch in your throat. When lightning drowns the room again, the Soldier isn't there anymore, so you run to your room and open the closet. You get inside, drawing your limbs close to your body so you can fit under the hanging clothes. But the closet doors stay open. Both your arms are around your head, trying to die out the roaring from outside, and your hands press against your skull and you feel like it's going to burst any moment. Your eyes are shut and guarded from any light and you don't see anything else but thick darkness. A loud rumble of thunder gives out just as you let out a wail, like notes of the same symphony. Hot tears wet the planes of your face and you are helpless and unmoving when you feel the Soldier place a hand on your injured shoulder.

Your crying hurts so much you are still shaking, waiting for the Soldier to tear you apart and consume you like a beast, but the hand withdraws.

 " _Bucky!_ It's me, Steve," a voice is saying, desperate and loud. "You are in Washington, D.C., you are with me and no one else, you are safe, Bucky."

You are afraid to look up and see the Soldier's blood-stained grin but when you do Steve is really there, blue eyes of apprehension and misery. Your tears stain your face but you've stopped sobbing. "Steve…" You mutter and focus on his figure in the dark. He's crouching down to be at your eye-level. His hands are planted on the floor, palms down.

He nods like he's having a hard time convincing himself. "Yes, Bucky, I'm here."

 _"Steve,"_ you whimper, uneasy and confused and unsure of what you want.

You want him to draw closer but you don't want to feel touched. Even when you crave the warmth and kindness of being petted or pampered, you can't stand the uneasiness it brings. Suddenly your flesh hand is on top of Steve's left one. You can feel him hold his breath, turning the air between you thick and static. As soon as your skin touches his, it sends electricity up your arm. You can do this but you shouldn't want him or seek his touch. You are meant to take what you get, not ask for it. If it's a reward you take it, if it's punishment, you swallow it. _But Steve is not your handler_ , a voice in the back of your mind whispers. It frustrates you to be halfway there. Halfway knowing what you should do and not being able to execute it. You take away your hand from his and cover your face with both your arms.

"It's okay, Bucky," Steve says, sounding gentle instead of forcible. "There's nothing wrong with wanting contact."

You bring your knees closer to your body and bury your head further, wetness welling on your eyes.

"If it helps we can try it," he continues.

But you don't want to try it, you want it to be the way it once was, like opposite poles finding each other. You don't want to breathe your way through it, you rather not do it at all. 

"C'mon, Buck." 

You shake your head.

Steve sits in front of you and sighs _(you frustrate him he's sick of you why are you even here)_. Your eyes close and the tears wet your face and the crook of your arm. You focus on the rain hitting against the windows and try not to wince when a thunder strikes. Cold spreads from your chest to the rest of your body, making you shiver. You grit your teeth as hard as you can to stop any sobbing noise escape you, but Steve never leaves, you can feel his heat radiating from his spot to yours. He doesn't move at all and you wish he would leave you alone so you could escape through the door and not look at him before doing so. Throughout the storm you try to calm your mind and get yourself on your feet, out of Steve's place for good. You try to gather what you need to stop crying and leave but you can't do _neither_. You are a fucking mess. Steve thinks you're making progress but you fall back and you are still a fucking mess−

 _"When Whippoorwills call, and evenin' is nigh,"_ Steve is singing. Your mind stops and everything is blank at the sudden sound of his voice, hoarse and small but melodic and precious. _"I hurry to my blue heaven."_ Without warning, you have the guts to open your eyes and turn your head at him, the moon and the occasional lightning casting different patterns of shadows on Steve's face. _"Turn to the right, there's a little white light,"_ you look at him curiously, fixed on the words he sings and his expression is soft when he looks back at you. _"Will lead you to my blue heaven."_  

You uncurl yourself as he hums and suddenly trusting him is something natural, some preexistent code inside of you, so you lean forward and let him take you in his arms.

 


	10. Freight car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://baeskywalker.tumblr.com) :)
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter specific warnings: Brief mentions of abuse and violence.

Nightmares aren't always about the people you murdered, or the people who hurt you. Sometimes you see Steve. You see him dying. You are both drowning in clear waters, your lungs are fighting for air but you keep swallowing water and trashing your limbs, fighting claw and teeth as you try to get to the surface. Until you see him, the way he used to be before the serum, being swallowed by the depths. So you get the strength to reach out for him, and when you have your metal hand around his fragile wrist you look up and you see light coming in through the water. It's so bright and peaceful that you just want to go there. 

You stop moving, stop struggling and let the water do what it wants to do. You stare at Steve instead, his hair like silk and his face pale with illness. And you stare and stare because he's there, at the water's mercy, in the claws of the Beast when he is a saint and you just want to take him home.

In the blink of an eye you are at the shore. You taste salt on Steve's lips when you try to get the water out of him. You push down against his chest and his sternum feels like it's going to break at your monstrous hands but it doesn't and you never do it gentler. His bones hold up just fine but you don't see his eyes ever again.

 

You lie motionless next to Steve. You can see his immaculate figure from the corner of your eyes. A hot wetness spreads from you, from Steve. Flickers of him and then darkness as you blink and groan in misery.

You don't know where your blood ends and Steve's begins.

 

* * *

 

"You know? Sam thinks it's a good idea for us to practice boundaries," Steve says out of the blue, while he's folding laundry and you are playing a silly game on your tablet. 

"Fuck, Steve," you say with enough venom to surprise yourself. "Stop talking about my issues with Sam, would you?"

Steve looks at you with regret. "I'm sorry," he says and you abandon the tablet on the mattress as you rise to your feet, ready to flee to another room. "It's just that I noticed you've been having a hard time with contact and that's fine, but we want it to be safe."

"What do you mean safe?" You ask, honestly clueless.

"Safe for you," Steve continues, a hint of hope on his voice. "You get to decide when to touch me." 

"You ask every time," you acknowledge. 

"Yeah…" Steve says, looking at his own hands like they're traitors. "But it shouldn't be my call, but yours."

"So what Sam wants me to do is… Initiate contact?"

"Only when you want to."

That night you gather the colored pens that you own and your notebook and head to Steve's bedroom. You knock gently like the ghost you are. Steve opens the door and you can see his naked torso as he slips a T-shirt on. 

"Hey, Bucky. Is something wrong?"

You duck your head sheepishly, "uh-- No. I figured maybe..." you start but feel very idiotic doing this, asking Steve to join you in a childish activity. "You know what? Forget it, it's silly," you say, hiding the supplies behind your back the best you can.

"No, no, come in," he holds the door open for you and follows you inside. He has his phone plugged to a stereo, playing gentle jazz music. "What is it?"

You hunch in on yourself. "I was thinking... since Sam told you about me and... starting stuff. I thought that--" you show him the pens and notebook at the lack of words. "I want to trust you," you say and Steve grimaces. "I mean naturally. I don't want to feel threatened so I thought we could... try."

"Yeah," Steve says with light in his eyes. "So... What do you want me to do?"

You open your notebook to the first blank page available. You've used more than a half of the pages, and the notebook cannot be closed correctly because of the pages that you've scratched and crumpled in anger and folded methodically to hide things that you don't like seeing. You offer your notebook to Steve and he takes it. "Can you draw something here? And then... can you draw it on me?" 

Steve blinks a few times but a little smile comes afterwards. "Sure, Bucky."

You feel smaller than ever standing face to face to him. You hand him the pens and look around uncomfortably.

"I have some other art supplies over here, do you want to sit?" Steve says as he opens a drawer of his desk.

You plop down on the floor and cross your legs, "I'm sorry, are my pens not good enough for you?" 

Steve chuckles, unharmed. "You're talking to the art expert here," he says lowering himself next to you. In his arms he carries used watercolors, brushes with different lengths, markers with colored labels and small tubes of paint, unnew. "Okay, what do you want me to draw?"

You shrug. "Whatever you want," you say. 

"Okay then," Steve starts, planting his feet on the floor and choosing the black pen you gave him. "Don't look," he says but you're not as interested in what he's drawing than you are in hiding the other pages from him. "Wanna have your way at it?"

"Hm?" You look up at him, raising an eyebrow.

"My sketchbook is on the nightstand drawer," Steve explains. "You can take it and draw something if you want."

The sketchbook is brown and is at least twice as big as your notebook. It has a metallic spiral to hold the pages together and the sheets are textured slightly.

"You can take a look if you want," Steve says, eyes glued on his work.

"Okay…" The first sketches are colored landscapes. The Capitol Building on a sunny and clear day, the Washington Monument and the Supreme Court Building. There are pencil sketches of roads and parks and buildings. But then come the drawings of a place long forgotten. These are made with much more thought, with variation in the technique. Coney Island in watercolors, Brooklyn Bridge in ink, a picturesque avenue in Williamsburg and a granite wall with the figure of a man on one side and a woman and a child on the other.

"What is this?" You ask, holding up the sketchbook.

Steve looks up almost instantly, "Brooklyn War Memorial."

"Oh," you answer, looking back at the drawing. The stone wall has an inscription, which Steve recreated in a very thin and small letter. "What-- does it say?"

"This Memorial is dedicated to the heroic men and women of the Borough of Brooklyn," Steve recites like he stood in front of the Monument for hours, reading the inscription and committing it to heart. "who fought for liberty in the Second World War 1941 to 1945 and especially to those who suffered and died, may their sacrifice inspire future generations and lead to universal peace." Steve makes a pause, focusing back on the drawing, now choosing a blue marker. "It has the names of around eleven thousand five hundred Brooklyn service men."

"When was it built?"

"1951." 

"So your name is there?" 

"Yeah," Steve says, dragging the syllable a little as he does a precise movement with his wrist. "And so is yours."

You huff out a laugh and say, "I was born in Indiana."

Steve's chuckle follows suit. "Peggy moved mountains to have your name there." Steve shrugs, "After all you grew up in New York."

You reach a blank page of the notebook, your grab one of Steve's marker, not minding the color, and press it down of the sheet of paper. You think of an orphanage. Wooden floors, cold halls. Scrunched up newspapers under your head at night. Falling to your knees and keeping on running. A little red truck. A light-haired boy missing a milk tooth. 

"I'm done," Steve announces, snapping you out of your thoughts. "Wanna see?" 

You shake your head and just now you see the scribble on your lap. Your hand continues moving up and down, up and down. Irregular shapes like spikes done with a bright orange. Flames burning down a house you never lived in. Up and down, dancing like living things. Lethal and unforgiving.

"Do you still wanna do this?" Steve asks. 

You jerk your head and abandon the sketchbook. "Yeah," you say.

"Where…?" 

You make a sound of discomfort without wanting to. "I-- don't know."

"You'll want to see it, so maybe your arm?"

"Yeah, that's good," you agree, sitting on your haunches and rolling up the sleeve of your cotton shirt.

Steve shuffles closer to you, taking a black marker with his left hand and placing his right palm up invitingly. "I'm gonna need to hold your arm."

Your gaze travels through his body, reading him before extending your arm for him.

"If you want to stop just shake your head, okay?" Steve says before you make any contact. 

"Right." 

His grip is feather-light and gentle, like he's pretending not to be there at all. He looks up at you experimentally and asks, "Everything good?" 

"Yeah," you exhale. 

"I'm going with the outline." 

The tip of the marker is cold and wet but its… grounding. On the other side, while Steve's grip is nothing compared to the way they used to drag you around, nails digging on softness, bruises blossoming on snow, you fear that it will turn into that in any moment. You're afraid of waking up, of being woke up when you're convinced you are not asleep.

"Can you talk to me?" You mumble, fright staining your voice. 

Steve doesn't ask you what do you want to talk about, instead he says, "Ernest Bruner used to beat me up a lot." 

"Who?" You say immediately.

Steve makes a face. "Just… a bully. I mean, we were kids, around six or seven, but he liked breaking toys that didn't belong to him and making other kids cry."

Your eyebrows are pushed together.

"I had just met you," Steve continues. "Ernest had shoved me to the ground and you stood up for me but I kept going at him."

"Sounds like you." 

"Yeah," he chuckles softly. "He beat the hell out of the two of us anyway."

"Of course he did." 

"You kind of hated me after that." 

Your stomach contracts and you are gasping as a smile takes over your lips. "Sounds like me," you say. 

"Damn right," Steve laughs too, genuine and hallowed. "Thing is," he says, reaching for the used tube of electric blue and a thin brush. "By the time you discovered I enjoyed to taste dirt on a daily basis, we had already engaged in a dozen fights." 

"With seven year olds, Steve." 

"Yeah, no and the big guys too." 

"The ten year olds? What are three years." 

"A _lot,_ especially if you weigh thirty nine pounds." You think of tiny feet, prominent bones, pale skin. "I'm done, wanna take a look?" 

"Do I really have a choice?"

"Very funny," Steve says but the sarcasm doesn't reach his tone. He lets go of your arm and says, "Go on." 

You finally look down to the inside of your forearm. The silhouette of a deer stands elegantly, head angled to the right and ears perked up. It has antlers like branches of trees, covered in little buds and flowers alive in blue. You turn your arm around to take a better look; two scars cross the deer apart like lightning. These scars, bulgy and uneven, have been with you for many wipes. But when the tip of your finger brushes the hardened skin, it comes. Saws and a whirring. Sharp knives and gushing. And like these, many more scars baptize your body. Some are results of missions, others are not. 

"Do you like it?" Steve inquiries, a bit of anxiety in his voice.

"I do," you confess, staring up at him, with your soul in your eyes. 

 

* * *

 

Some nights you don't make it to the bed. These nights usually indicate that sleep hasn't touched you in four or five days. And the couch indicates that you passed out, like 30 mg of diazepam on your bloodstream.

And like 30 mg of diazepam, there aren't many things that disturbs your coma. 

But dawn comes and with the sunlight the slumber gives way.

Steve's body on the smaller couch comes to your range of vision.

Before you know it, your human hand is reaching out to him and your fingers are wrapping Steve's wrist, like you did that day, begging him not to let them take you. Steve jolts into awareness but his eyes are understanding the moment he sees you.

He's careful, so he doesn't remark on what is going on. His lips curve into a lopsided smile and he says, "Good morning…"

You let your lips twitch upwards.

His eyes close back and his skin is warm. You focus on the relaxed muscles of his jaw and the soft but insistent thuds of his blood running through his veins.

The position is uncomfortable for both of you, even when your grip is not too tight and his phalanxes aren't clenched. But your shoulder bends in an awkward position and there's a tingling sensation on the tip of your fingers, Steve's hand must be going numb too. But deep inside, this feels right, like you're getting to do some imperious task so far impossible. You peek an eye open to look at Steve and his face looks like this is giving him some peace. The thought wanders in your head, and then it hits you: this is the way you were supposed to hold onto Steve before you fell.

So you do, oh you do. 

In a way, this still counts. Steve is your lifeline and you will not let go, and after seventy years of torture you are where you are meant to be. Death tore you apart long ago so this must be going to the other side. 

  

* * *

 

You drag your feet to Steve's room, locating your body away from your brain but somehow managing the signals to get it moving. You focus on what it feels right now, how your skin reacts to the cold air or how the carpet tickles on your bare feet.  When you get there Steve is impossibly still but when you sink your fingers on his upper arm his flesh is warm. Warm and alive. In a soft gasp he is awake and when he sees you he isn't afraid of your murdering figure in the dark. He is not like the others you visited in their rooms in the night. He doesn't scream in horror, he doesn't take a knife into his flesh.

Time ticks away in Steve's clock. Soft and tender, like your touch on his skin. Quick and lively like your heart. You crawl into his bed. Close. Steve pulls the sheets on top of your bodies. Closer. His breath reaches your lips, your cheeks. His arms wrap around your torso, his hands are heavy on your back. You bury your head between his chest and his neck, you breathe him in. His weight is gold and he smells of cotton and soap and the brush of his fingers on your lower back makes you tremble. 

When the dark takes over and the day creatures are drowned in slumber, the monsters come out and they call you. They ask you to go back to them, they say you belong with all the malignant spirits. 

"That's not true," Steve whispers in the sullen silence of the night and you now realize you were speaking to him. "They will never have you back." 

"They always have me back," you say and Steve's body stiffens. "When will I have me back?"

"You have you back, Bucky." 

A long pause.

"Am I becoming Real?"

 "Yes," Steve says fondly. "You are."

His words, even whispered, reach you loudly. They echo inside your head so you can close your eyes and swallow them down. Your sternum doesn't touch his belly, so you shuffle closer until it does and it feels different. Wider hips, longer extensions of tendons and tissue. You don't take over him like before, you curl around him and he shelters your bones. It feels like fog in your mind, as you fall naturally into unconsciousness and you are afraid to let go. It's irrational because you can touch him, you _know_ he's right there but you are scared that this is just a dream, that when you wake up, dripping in a frigid substance, aching everywhere, he won't be there.

  

* * *

 

"Can you see him?" Steve asks you when your gaze migrates from his eyes to the blank wall behind him. 

A shiver travels down your spine like a half-melted ice. "It's there." 

"What is he doing?" 

Cold swims over you. "It's bleeding," you explain, eyes hung on it. "It's soaking wet. Bones broken, angles wrong, holds upright, blood on its hands, it wants you." 

"Bucky." 

"Here for you," you mutter, your breath is hitching, your hand jerks involuntarily. 

"Do you want to play the five-four-three-two-one game?" 

Your ice glare finds his feverish blue. 

"Name five things you can see," Steve instructs you, kindly. 

 _"Soldat,"_ Steve flinches, so you look back at him. "You, painting, your… crockery, how more?" 

"One more." 

"Books," you finish. Steve has too many paintings, too many books. Sometimes the paintings are trees, or trains. Sometimes the books are about presidents or poetry. 

"Good, that's five," Steve says, moving to shield the Soldier's presence with his own. The dark figure blurs but you know it's there.  "Can you name four things you can feel?" 

"Cold… sweat. Feet on the floor, ache in my stomach, the chair." 

"The chair you're sitting on?"

"Leather." 

"No," Steve says, more sternly this time. "What fabric is the chair you're sitting on?"

You bring your flesh hand down to feel the seat. It's soft, like velveteen, it tickles. "It's smooth."

"That's right." 

"Not leather?"

"No. Can you name three things you can hear right now?"

"Si− Silence?" 

"Silence is the absence of sound," Steve explains. "You can't hear silence."

"Your voice," you say and Steve nods. "There are… birds. Chirping outside."

"Yes, there are. One more?"

"A car, accelerating."

"Okay," Steve exhales. "Two things you can smell."

You just showered so you don't reek anymore. "Soap, and… your lotion, like wood and grass."

Steve smiles sadly. "We're almost finished. How about one good thing about yourself."

 "I…" You remember playing this with Sam and Natasha. Sam had asked and you shook your head, helpless. Natasha had said _uh-uh no bailing._ Sam had said _it can be anything, just say the first thing that comes to mind._ "I'm true."

 

* * *

 

One more dream. There are flowers growing around you, molding through your muscles and making their way to life. Blue is their color, bright and blue like the waves of the ocean on midday. Five petals, a yellow orb in the center, electricity and contrast against your skin. The color of mourning, синий.

The boy. The child that Steve used to be. He appears outside of your cage and shows you his palms. They are scrapped deeply, little drops of blood surging between his broken skin. He looks up to you questioningly and now you see the bruises coloring his face, under his eyes, on the sharp edges of his cheekbones, a bump on his temple. Purple and yellow and blue and red. His lip is burst and a sliver of blood leaks from his mouth.

Your left hand moves, it rests on the glass that holds you back.

The boy's eyes are pleading, crystal, diamond. This is wrong, this is wrong. His pink lips mouth your name but you can't hear his sweet voice. They make the shape again, they part like a moan and bare like a hiss.

This is wrong. You are covered in flowers and Steve is dripping blood. This is wrong. 

 

* * *

 

Crooked faces and dropping grins, creatures with a thousand hands, they lean over you until the fluorescent lights of the warehouse disappear. _Look at this wide-eyed thing, I could just eat him up!_

Then the bloodied smirks turn into surgical masks and cold dark eyes. Metal clicks around the room and you are blinded by LEDs drowning your vision in white. A slight whirr purrs in your left ear and when they cut you open you are distracted by a splatter of your own blood on your face. Two kinds of fluids reach your eyes and the smell of scraped bones fills your senses as a cold sheet is placed over you and you can't feel no more. 

 

Your breathing is 

Hard 

 

His name is 

 

Poet i c

  

Your name is

lost

 

  

 

His voice is

 

liquid gold 

Falling down from his lips into his chin 

Into his hands away from you 

 

"I'm here, Bucky," Steve says calmly, too accustomed to treat you in this state. "It was a nightmare, okay? None of it is real now." 

Steve turns the lamp on with a small click and his eyes strike you like never before. You remember a child with the same warm blue in his eyes. You remember all the closed and small spaces you used to share, forts made of sheets, blankets and newspapers. Hiding chuckles behind a hand. Cold feet pressed to naked skin and trembling hands searching your rib cage.

The way you turn to look at Steve sets him off, like he knows you are somewhere else right now. A question dies on your lips, you don't know where to start. 

"Do you know where you are, Bucky?" Steve asks you, looking at you deeply.

You nod and say, "D.C.," the word scrapes your throat.

Steve leans a bit closer. "Can I… touch you?" He asks with a tiny voice.

You feel your body temperature dropping, uncertain of what is real and what isn't.

_Real._

_It's a thing that happens to you_ , the Skin Horse had said. _When you are loved for a long, long time, then you become Real._  

You nod your head, feeling your own eyelashes flutter against your cheeks. 

Steve moves very slowly, you can hear him. His hand reaches your face and with a gentle finger he brushes away the hair plastered with sweat to your forehead.

 _Does it hurt?_ Asked the Rabbit.

 _Sometimes,_ said the Skin Horse.

His touch is like sunshine and you're Winter weather.

His hand moves lower to cup your cheek. The affection in the gesture is making you lean into it.

_When you are Real you don't mind being hurt._

Your eyes open, and he is smiling sadly. A small bird is fluttering behind your lungs, its wings flap restlessly. Your left hand seeks the light, never seeing it before. You are mirroring his movements, turning out in ironic symmetry because you are a ghost when he is light of day and he runs through your body and you disappear, and your eyes are also blue but they're icy and blank. You are surprised when your own touch doesn't hurt him. He doesn't flinch or step back when a finger digs too hard on his cheekbone. He just looks into you like he's seeing something good in there. Something that you yourself aren't aware exists.

 _Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,_ he asked, _or bit by bit?_

 _It doesn't happen all at once,_ said the Skin Horse. _You become. It takes a long time._  

You can feel his breath on your skin, hot and living. You remember being this close to him, before. The yearning song of flesh. Darkness takes over you again, but this time you're not afraid of the monsters hiding there, waiting for the moment to have you on your knees and steal your voice. No. You aren't afraid because even though your eyes are closed, a soft light is guiding your path, scaring the monsters away. 

You 

Him

 

A brush of lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes from The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams.
> 
> Comments and reviews are deeply appreciated ♥
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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